


Opia

by Alohomora92



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, Dark, Domestic Violence, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Love, Magic, Nightmares, Past Child Abuse, Physical Abuse, Prophetic Dreams, Visions, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2020-10-20 08:56:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 30,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20672684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alohomora92/pseuds/Alohomora92
Summary: A not entirely cannon Mulan-inspired story of Westeros, because why not?When King Aerys II Targaryen, also known as the Mad King, breaks the previously agreed betrothal between his son Rhaegar and Elia Martell and chooses for the Prince's bride none other than Lyanna Stark, the realm is at the brink of war.As her father and brother march south to join the rebellion, Lyanna cannot stay with arms crossed in Winterfell waiting for news on her family. In an impulsive whim she runs away as an undercover hedge knight to join the lowest ranks of the Targaryen army, in an effort to gain and smuggle away information about the Targaryen's moves.However, her plan goes sour once the troop she has joined is unexpectedly called to duty in King's Landing, where following extensive training they will be led to the front by non other than the Prince of Drangonstone himself. How will she manage to survive a war she did not intent to actually fight in the first pace? How will she manage not to be discovered for who she is? And furthermore, how will she manage to not to fall for a lonely and hurting silver dragon in the way?Dark themes, mentions of physical abuse. Slow build. More tags will be added.





	1. Arthur

**Author's Note:**

> A not entirely cannon Mulan-inspired story of Westeros, because why not? (But none of these amazing characters belong to me  
I took some liberties with the ages fo the characters. Here Lyanna is about 17 years old and Rhaegar is 21, so as to not make the age difference between them too abrupt. Also I did not envision Lyanna being as young as she is supposed to be in the books.  
I hope to explore these characters which I think deserved more than what they got int he books, as they have such key roles in the story of Westeros.

He shifted on his feet, white enameled armor clinking deafly as if in protest. Both his legs and his back hurt, muscles stiff from standing perfectly still in his post for perhaps hours now. And still he did not move. He could not move, would not move….even if one of his brothers came to relieve him.

His violet eyes shifted around him, but there was nothing much to look at except for stone. Pale red stone. It armored the wide hallway, cold and unyielding, curving up in high vaults over his head. The flickering orange fire form the torches licked the walls, casting shadows that danced from left to right, lurking ghosts in the depth of night.

The shouting started again. The Sword of the Morning cringed, shivers running down his back. He tried to remain deaf, to push the noise from his head, but it was impossible. And still he wanted to listen. He needed to listen. His stomach tied in a deep knot, and once again he was scared. But he always was in times like these. How many times had he not stood there, in that very same spot, his back to the grand wooden door, waiting?

No, not waiting…._standing guard_. A soft snort left his mouth at the thought, his white pristine cloak suddenly feeling too heavy. What good was it that he stood guard out here, when the person he was supposed to be guarding was beyond his reach and in the claws of a mad man? He prayed to the Seven that his Prince would not do anything foolish.

A loud clacking sound came from the other side of the door, startling him, the metallic sound reverberating loudly in the empty corridor. Whatever had been that fell, or perhaps was thrown, must have shattered.

“They are traitors!” The shouting continued, voice rasp and wild.

“They feel insulted, and rightly so. You have broken the betro-

“Traitors!” The King’s voice cut off his eldest son’s, and Arthur Dayne shifted once again uncomfortably on his feet. “That Dornish girl is not worthy of a Dragon! They are filth who reek of sand. Their blood is weak!”

“Dorne is a powerful ally, Your Grace, if you would reconsi-“ The Prince’s voice was drowned by the sound of another object shattering. He shivered, even though the air was hot and sticky. The King was enraged. He feared for his friend.

“You will not marry the Dornish girl!” King Aery’s cry must have been heard all the way to the Wall.

“Oberyn Martell has joined Robert’s cause!” He could hear Rhaegar’s voice rising, clearly out of his endless patience. Fool. _Do not do it_. _Stay calm, let him have his way or it will only get worse_. “We are facing _war_, Your Grace. We need allies!”

“Tywin Lannister is our ally!”

“Tywin Lannister will flee to Casterly Rock the second you avert your gaze! For how long do you expect him to remain loyal to the Crown when you have also publicly turned down the betrothal to his daughter!” The Dragon Prince was shouting now, voice matching his father’s tone.

More loud clanks. Another shattering sound. He should have known. Although part of him had already known since the moment he had knocked at Rhaegar’s ornate door under the King’s command. There was no way this was going to turn out well.

“YOU WILL NOT MARRY CERSEI LANNISTER, AND YOU WILL NOT MARRY ELIA MARTELL!” The King seemed to have finally lost it.

It took every ounce of self-control he had to not turn around and march into the room. He needed to get his friend out of there. He needed to make sure Rhaegar was safe.

“Your betrothal has already been set!” The King continued. More things slamming and breaking through the other side of the door, making the Sword of the Morning wonder if there would be anything left there by the end of the night.

“Which is precisely what has started this war!” He could hear Rhaegar trying to reason with his father, but it would be an impossible task.

“YOU WILL MARRY WHOM I TELL YOU TO MARRY, BOY!” There would be no persuading the King, and he prayed once more the Seven for Rhaegar to understand that. _Do not provoke him further. _ “The matter is settled! Now out with you, boy! Out! OUT!”

The door opened abruptly, making Arthur nearly jump in surprise, his violet eyes following the back of a silvery head disappearing down the corridor. It took him a split second to gather himself, dutifully following his Prince and friend down the route he knew like the palm of his hand.

Not a single light filtered from the occasional arched window piercing the thick walls, the pitch black sky outside overcast with clouds and mist. He could feel the dampness in the air, sticking his tunic to his chest underneath his armor, the walls and floor staining with humidity.

The only sound that followed their path was the ghost of their footsteps, his heavy and long, Rhaegar’s light as snow. The Dragon Prince had not turned once to look at him, as usual. He never glanced behind him after leaving the King’s apartments, not once, not ever. _What shadows follow him in the dark, what specters does he rush to leave behind? _He did not know, and he was not sure he wanted to know. It was enough with he had seen, even though his friend never spoke a word of it.

How long has it been since it all started? Too many years, that he knew….but how many, he could not keep count.

And as usual he contented himself with walking behind Rhaegar, no longer needed to be called upon to know he was meant to follow his friend in nights like this. He had lost count of how many narrow spiraling staircases they descended, even though he knew he should have by now memorized the number of steps there was in each one.

Ser Oswell was there, as expected, standing dutifully outside the large door leading to the Prince’s chambers. His brother’s eyes met his in silent questioning, but Arthur merely shook his head following Rhaegar inside the door, Oswell close behind him.

They moved past many chambers, the echo of their footsteps now drowned in the rich carpets that lined the floor of the Prince’s apartments. Rhaegar did not stop until reaching the bedchamber, Ser Oswell quick to close the door behind their backs.

A roaring fire danced in the enormous stone fireplace, bathing the room in bright red and orange. As if the room needed more of that. Nearly everything about the room was lined in either red or black, the Targaryen colors. Every item, every piece of furniture adorned in gold, with dragons and rubies appearing in nearly every surface. Any man would swoon in wonder at the sheer richness that adorned the room, and yet Rhaegar saw none of it.

He watched his friend closely, following his tall slender figure drop in an ornate chair by the fireplace, deep indigo eyes lost in the flames. Under the bright light it was impossible to miss the dark shadows under his eyes, just above those sharp pale cheekbones.

“Shall I fetch the Maester, Your Grace?” Oswell’s deep voice broke the heavy silence, and for the first time he noticed how the left sleeve of Rhaegar’s deep crimson tunic was blossoming in a darker shade, sticking with blood that ran down his long pale fingers and onto the carpet below.

“That will not be necessary, Os.” Sad, indigo eyes did not even turn to look, but there was no space for argument in his voice.

Arthur shook his head, crossing the room in long strides to the ornate cabinet where he knew he found find exactly what his friend needed. He could read the cues, no matter how imperceptible they were to others: the paler shade of his ivory skin, the shadows under his eyes, the slight crease on his forehead… It took him a second of rummaging, but sure enough there it was, and he poured the contents of the tiny flask into a tall golden goblet before offering it to his friend.

Rhaegar took the cup without questioning, eyeing the white milky substance for a short second before drowning it in one gulp.

“You are stronger than him, do you know?” Oswell ventured, even though his voice dropped nearly to a whisper. “You can stop him.”

“Can I?” For the first time the Prince’s eyes turned in their direction, that unnatural Targaryen violet seeming to pierce through each of them, ever sad, ever silent.

_No, you cannot. _But neither Arthur nor Oswell voiced the answered that already danced in all of their heads. _At least not this way, not if you wish to live._ Rhaegar would act, but he would do it quietly and without raising suspicion. And in the meantime….in the meantime there was nothing to do but continue as it had been for years.

“I take it the King did not reconsider restating the match with Princess Elia?” It was Arthur’s turn to speak. He already knew that much, but he was not about to tell his Prince that he had perfectly heard the shouts coming from the other side of the door, even though he knew Rhaegar was aware he had heard.

“We have lost Dorne.” The Dragon Prince affirmed, cosign his eyes and leaning his silver head back on the chair. For a second the Sword of the Morning considered going against his friend’s wishes and calling for the Maester. “Oberyn Martell has yet to make a move, but he will doubtless join Robert Baratheon in the rebellion. The King believes that by arranging my marriage to Lyanna Stark we can ensure the North will not join their cause. So far Lord Rickard has managed to arrange a betrothal between his eldest son and Hoster Tully’s daughter, securing the North’s alliance with the riverlands, and his second son fosters in the Vale of Arryn.”

“And yet it is precisely the betrothal to Laynna Stark which has started this war.” Oswell grunted, his pristine white armor clicking as he paced the room behind Rhaegar’s chair, clearly uncomfortable with what he had heard. “The North will never settle for it. They will never agree to this proposal.”

“And yet denying the King’s word is considered treason.” Rhaegar’s deep voice floated through the room.

“Lord Rickard is no fool. He will march his army to Storm’s End rather than ship his only daughter to King’s Landing. If the North declares for Robert Baratheon, the riverlands will follow, and then the Vale of Arryn.” Arthur concluded. He could not see how Rhaegar would manage to turn things in his favor. How was he supposed to unite a Kingdom that his father had managed to lead to war?

“And Tywin Lannister fights for no one but himself.” The Dragon Prince continued, the bright orange flames staining his long silvery locks red.

“Than only leaves Highgarden.” Arthur added. He did not like the direction in which things were heading. He did not like it one bit.

Rhaegar nodded, a single nearly absent minded shake of the head. “I ride to Highgarden in a fortnight, to try and talk Lord Mace into calling his banners and joining the front.”

“He means to send _you_?!” Arthur could not contain himself, words coming out as a snarl, rage pumping through his veins. “You are not even half-way healed yet and he means for you to march to war?”

Sharp, indigo eyes cut through him, and he fell silent and the unspoken command. And still his fists closed tightly at his sides, nails digging into his palms. But then again there was no need for him to say it out loud. There was need for him to tell Rhaegar something he was sure the Prince already knew all too well. The three of them knew it. The three of them were thinking. The King did not intend for his eldest son to survive the war. Rhaegar Targaryen was being sent off not to fight, but to die.


	2. Lyanna

_What has gotten into me? What kind of madness is this? _

She ran her hand through the knots in her hair, not used to the feeling of her hand touching only air past her shoulders. She would never get to accustomed to it. It was too short. Too short to braid it properly, or comb it as she was taught to, the dark curls now sticking to her neck and only brushing her shoulders as the wind slapped around the strands as if to mock her.

Lyanna Stark chuckled, thin bony fingers falling to rest over the thick wooden rail. Who would have thought that of all things it was her long curls she would miss most? Surely her mother must be laughing now, wherever her spirit was.

She could still see it, if she closed her eyes. Just one sure stroke of the sharp Valyrian Steel and the long midnight locks she had carried since she had memory had fallen dead to the floor. But she had had to do it. It had been necessary.

Now she was not so sure.

_What have I gotten myself into?_

She inhaled deeply, tasting the salt in her mouth. The rhythmic rocking of the ship underneath her feet made her feel as though she was dancing, dancing over the endless blue waves. She wished she could be one of them, steadily wandering to the shore and he warm orange sand, away from this ship, away from the new worries and fears that pulled at her insides at night and made it night impossible to sleep.

Where had her courage gone to? Where had that fire, that solid stubborn resolution that had led her to where she was suddenly disappeared to?

And yet it had seemed such a good idea at the time. Perhaps it still was….only the gods knew.

“What’s so interesting out there?” A hand fell on her shoulder, a short and awkward figure appearing next to her.

She shook her head, pushing away her thoughts. _Lyanna’s_ thoughts. And she was not Lyanna Stark. Not now.

“Have you ever been there?” She deepened her voice as much as she could, even though she was sure she still must sound pathetic. The roaring wind and waves slapping against the wooden sides of the massive ship made it almost impossible to hear anything.

“Where?” The young man’s pale eyes narrowed at the horizon, following her sight. “The fingers?”

“Mhm.” She nodded, blinking a few times as the glare of the sun in the blue mirror below made her eyes water.

“No.” The man shook his head, unkempt sandy strands sticking messily to his face. “Have you?”

“Wish I had.” She replied with a shrug, watching as her companion looked at her with strange curiosity. He called himself a man, even though she could see he was still part boy. At least it was someone to talk to.

Most of the men she now travelled with were sellswords, and, although she would never admit it, the majority of them scared her. There were a few knights, but none of them were even interested in looking her way, not that she cared anyway. And the rest…the rest were farmers, and fishermen and orphans and bastards, if they were honest men, and others were thieves, and smugglers and rapist, and whatever pitiful soul they had found on the road that was willing to join the armies in a hope to gain some gold should the battles be won.

None of them were soldiers. Only a handful of them even knew how to properly swing a sword. But what had she been expecting? She must have known that the troops with no banners would not be anything like the ordered columns of richly armed men she had seen marching from Winterfell not even a Moon past. And yet, even if part of her had already known, reality was hard to swallow.

Except there was one banner now, ever since they had set sail from White Harbor, swaying languidly at the high mast: A red three headed dragon on a black field.

“Why would you wish to see the Fingers?” The young man next to her, Pidge, snorted mockingly. He was a serving boy at one of the inns down the King’s road, near the neck. Or at least had been, since said inn had been durned to ashes according to his tale.

The name had once been Pidgeon, as he had confessed to her almost embarrassed one night by the roaring fire at the side of the King’s Road, when his breath smelled of dark ale. He had gotten it from the innkeeper, for he spent day and night serving and picking up bread crumbs. Still, the name kind of suited him, with his bony and awkward legs and pointed nose that could almost pass for a beak. At least he was not a rapist.

“Because.” She shrugged, letting her grey eyes follow the distant contours of the narrow strips of pale blue stone where it met the water. She felt almost as if she were looking at one of the many beautifully illustrated maps in her father’s library, except that this were real. She had never left the North, had never left her home…and now that she had every corner of world carried a strange fascination to it.

“You are a strange lad, Snow.” The rough hand palmed her shoulder twice before Pidge turned around, his back disappearing through the crowds of other men strolling over the deck.

_That’s because I’m not a lad,_ she wished she could say. But nobody must find out. If they ever did, it could mean her death.

A particularly strong way crashed against the side of the ship, bathing her face in salty spray. She used the sleeve of the worn plain linen tunic she wore to wipe it off. Ned’s tunic. Most of the clothes she had taken, had been his, as Brandon was too large and Benjen too small. Still it hard been a difficult task, since she had to avoid anything that had a direwolf embroidered in it or anything that may give away her noble rank. What she could not find in Ned’s wardrobe she had been force to steal from one of the stable boys. She would repay the lad latter, when she returned. _If she returned_.

A sour feeling gripped her stomach, twisting her intestines and filling her with remorse. What would Benjen be doing now? Had he told on her? He must have noticed her disappearance days ago. She had left a note, though. It was not enough, and she knew it. Ben would never forgive her for running away in the middle of the night, for leaving him alone in the Castle he now had to rule by himself. _There must always be a Stark in Winterfell._

Had Ben wrote to her father? To her brothers? Most probably not. Even her youngest brothers must be smart enough to know that a letter with such content falling in the wrong hands would mean her death and the ruin of her family. she could almost hear the scandal, see the crowd of people that would most surely gather to witness her beheading. The daughter of Lord Stark dressing up as a knight and joining the Targaryen army in order to smuggle out information for the Rebellion.

_At least if I die like that they will certainly write a song about me. _

She turned around, grey eyes gazing through a group of dirty men comparing twisted and broken knives which were even starting to rust. The wind kissed her neck, the heavy Targaryen banner dancing languidly once more.

The seal too had sported the three-headed dragon. That’s how she had kwon where it came from, even before her lord father unrolled the scroll. After Brandon had ripped the parchment into so many pieces that not even a trace of the dragon remained.

And know she was headed straight into the dragon’s lair. And by her own doing, by her own choice. 

King’s Landing had never been part of the plan. And now it was only a matter of days before the blue and distant rocky shores of the Fingers made way to the stench and crowded docks of the city.

That had never been the plan. She was meant to stay in the sidelines, as far from the core of the dragon’s army as she possible could. And if she was to see battle, then it would be one of the smaller ones. She had only to join the troops in order to get enough information about the dragon’s moves and tactics. And yet here she was, about to undergo training to join the front lines; about to risk her life under the command of the man she had intended to never set eyes on, the man she had never met and yet despised with even the deepest corner of her soul, the man who would have forced her away from her home, who had made her father and brother march south to fight a war they might not return from. The man she would have been forced to marry.

No. She would make sure the Targaryens did not win this war. Every plan, every tactic, every moved they attempted, she would make impossible…


	3. Lyanna

The smell was worse than she had thought. It made her nostrils burn and she could almost feel a sour putrid taste in the back of her tongue.

And still the sight was astonishing.

Lyanna took a step forward, her leather boots sinking and squelching in the mud, overwhelmed by the hordes of people filling the docks. To her left, shouts drowned the loud chorus of a thousand voices coming from the fish market “Fresh crab!” “Oysters!”, silvers stags and copper coins nearly jumping from hand to hand in an endless of exchange. More than once she caught sight of young barefoot children running out of the way to avoid being trampled by wooden carts filled with goods coming to and from the night fifty ships at port. She had never seen so much merchandize before, her eyes dating from left to right in an effort to take it all. There were silks and velvets, rolled yards of Myrish lace in nearly every color it could be dyed in. There were spices in plates and clay bowls, and carts overflowing with dead fish and oysters and seaweed. A couple of paces to her right she could see a dozen men rolling large barrels of what could only be wine into one of the largest ships, with four huge masts and at least seventy oars.

“Move it, boy!” A broad man pushed her from behind, his bushy dark bead streaked with white.

A million replies ran through her head, but she bit her tongue so hard that she nearly drew blood. There was no point in picking out a fight she could not win. And she had no intention of ending up with broken ribs or bruised eyes before she started training.

She felt herded, simply moving long with the masses of men descending from the ship. The red and black Targaryen banners flapped under the wind at both sides of the long columns they formed, and she could feel the weight of a thousand eyes following them. 

Soldiers from the city watch flanked their march, their steel armors glistening under the scorching midday sun, sharp and menacing lances pointed at the sky. There were hundreds of them, watching them, studying them, escorting them from the docks to the Red Keep, their long cloaks in shimmering gold.

“Move aside!” “Make way!” She could hear them shouting at the crowds that had started to gather in order to take at a look at them, as though they were foreign creatures that did not belong in the city’s landscape. They were nearly twelve hundred men, from what she had counted.

Her hand travelled to her belt, almost instinctively, palping the hilt of the skinny sword she had stolen from the armory at Winterfell, needing to know that it was still there. Her few items of clothing and her. Mismatched armor weighed heavily on her back, wrapped inside a makeshift bag made of and old torn cloak.

“Stinks of shit.” Pidge complained next to her, his pointed nose wrinkling in disgust.

“Welcome to the city.” She said, just as they passed through the tall twin pillars of the Mud Gate.

“I’m famished.” The young man continued to talk, even though she was only halfway paying attention to him. “I hope we get to taste some good suckling pig and onions and buttered potatoes. I’m sick of fish. Oh, and ale. What wouldn’t I give for some good dark ale…Wouldn’t you like some ale, eh, Snow?”

“You’re disgusting.” She mocked, nearly tripping up the uneven stone steps inside the city walls.

Aegon’s Hill rose high in the horizon, the pale red stone that formed the Red Keep looking like hot embers under the blazing sun, tall and proud…and terrifying. To her left she could see the white giant dome of the Sept of Baelor, on top of Visenya’s Hill, and, if she turned her head just a little, there was Rhaeny’s Hill. It was just like the maps, just like the many illustrations in the Maester’s library. Except that it was not.

“All I’m sayin’ is that a feast is the least we deserve before risking our lives for this rotting kingdom.” Pidge muttered under his breath, a teasing smile drawing at the corner of his mouth, and she silently prayed that the many armored soldiers escorting their march had not heard his words.

“That will not happen.” She shook his head, even though his untroubled, light demeanor made her feel more at ease somehow.

“And why not? The king must have food aplenty inside his keep. Why not roast even a tiny pig in the fire for us?” Pidge shrugged.

_There are other things the king likes to roast in fires. _She shuddered. She had heard the tales. Word of the burnings inside the throne room reaching even Winterfell, although nobody could tell for sure whether they were true or merely rumors. _The Mad King._ The name travelled from mouth to mouth in silent whispers in the North, and she doubted that it was not the same in other parts of the realm.

“Look!” Pidge suddenly hissed to her right ear. “It’s Ser Barristan the Bold!”

“You sound like a child.” She teased, even though her own eyes were quick to follow his gaze, looking at the tall figure all armored in white sitting straight on a grey destrier. There was another Kingsguard next to him, perhaps just as tall even though his face betrayed his youth, his hair as gold as the sun. Jaime Lannister. It had to be. _What would Ben give to be here?_

They had reached the Red Keep, sooner than she had hoped. She could see the giant red walls stretching around her as if to suffocate her. The sun burned the top of her head, forcing her eyes to look down at the dry dirt and stone, silently following the crowded column of men through the main gates and into an ample courtyard. She lifted her gaze for just a second, studying the tall towers, their tops filled with high crenellations and tiny windows. She could name them all, had heard all of their names, and yet they felt menacing, rising high above her head as if ready to crush her if she was not careful enough, and in the back of her mind she imagined how these walls must have looked like with a dragon perched just above them.

_The dragons have been gone for hundreds of years. _

Still she could almost see their shadows, or perhaps it was only her imagination, dancing on the outer walls if the sunrays moved just the right way…

They were led to another courtyard, just by the large rectangular building containing the kennels. And there they were left to set camp, or sleep on the ground if they wished to, the Keep having no more space to house them properly, and she wondered how many other soldiers had already arrived ahead of them. Nonetheless it was better than having to set camp outside the city walls, as if would be for any other army should it come.

She managed to make a poor attempt at a tent, choosing a spot at the back of the camp, close to the cold humid west wall of the kennels. The least she was seen the better for her. Still her intestines twisted with anxiety as her eyes once again circled the makeshift camp. How would she manage to keep her secret in such exposed setting? It had been hard enough at the ship, but here? They had been shown the baths…a single large pool that was shared among the soldiers. What was she to do now?

Pidge’s wish did come true, after all. Even though not exactly as she knew he had hoped. But a few hours after the flaming sun had died behind Visenya’s Hill in the distance, some servants appeared bringing food and flagons of ale form the kitchens. Fires had danced around the makeshift camp within minutes, the men huddling around them sharing loud tales and drinking their bellies and beards full of ale.

“You got your onions.” She said, shifting on her spot on the cold ground next to Pidge, taking a bite of the charred vegetable.

“Still I’m missing me pig.” Was the young man’s reply, onion juice flowing down his pointed chin as he wasted no time in stuffing nearly whole to his mouth before taking a long swing of his ale. He was about to get drunk. The whole thought of it disgusted her. What was with men and their need to drink their weight’s worth in liquor? Robert had been the same….so many a night had she witnessed it, on the few visits to Winterfell…

There were other in their little circle that she did not know, and a few that she could only name. Most of them were Pidge’s friends, the scrawny man having a unique ability to talk nearly anyone into liking him. There was Pat, the fat young lad whose belly jiggled as he laughed; and then Graige, a sellsword with greasy dark hair that reached his shoulders, a scar covering his left eyebrow. And the blond shy boy, who could be thirteen at most was Harrold.

“The pig is sitting right here.” One of the men she could not name retorted, pointing a hairy finger in Pat’s direction, who sent curses his way but did not bother to even stand up.

Lyanna took a sip from her ale, the sour liquid burning her tongue and throat, making her cough in disgust. She would never get used to the taste.

“Oy, no need to choke on it, Snow!” Pidge slapped her back, and she sent glares his way.

“Lad’s too fancy for this ale.” The sellsword, Graige, looked at her with dark eyes, piercing through her like a predator studying its next victim. “Look at him, that’s expensive linen right there, you’d make us all believe a simple bastard could afford that?”

“And what do you care what a bastard can and cannot afford?” She bit back, even though a voice at the back of her mind told to play safe, to be wise with her words. She rose to her feet, leaving her barely touched cup of ale on the ground and stepping away before the sellsword could ask any more questions.

In the distance, soft music could be heard filtering from the Great Hall, the tall narrow windows shimmering with the orange light of torches and fires. There was a feast within the main castle, no doubt. The night was hot and stuffy, even though part had foolishly hoped for a cooler weather once the unforgiving sun had disappeared. But such thing did not happen. Instead, Ned’s linen tunic stuck uncomfortably to her skin underneath her worn leather jerkin, her breeches scratching her thighs raw.

She moved through the courtyard in silence, merging with the dark shadows that haunted nearly every corner, the merry chatter and singing from the camp disappearing in the distance. The tower of the hand stretched tall and mighty to her left, the dark red stone now a violet grey in the darkness, its peaks scratching the moon. And past it she could make out the black silhouette of Maegor’s Holdfast in the distance, the castle within the castle. Would it had been there that she would have been forced to reside in, should her father had consented to the match? She shuddered to even think of it. Even from the distance the strong building looked like a prison. A dark and suffocating prison.

A sharp sound made her halt, her body suddenly frozen in place. There was some ruffling, and the awkward noise of feet seeming to trip over something. It came from the stables….the long wooden building just ahead of her, sitting against the thick walls that secured the Keep.

Her head snapped around, searching in the night-lit courtyard, but found no one, only a stray black cat that hissed at her showing her sharp white fangs. She could hear her own breathing, her heart drumming wildly inside her chest like a caged bird. Perhaps it was out of curiosity, perhaps out of fear, or perhaps both, but slowly and quietly she entered the building, always keeping to the shadows of the piled stacks of hay, for once thankful of her slim tiny figure.

Lyanna froze on the spot, her blood suddenly turning to ice inside her veins. There was a man inside the stables, his tall lithe figure unmistakable even under the uneven dim light of a few torches. That was the source of the unexpected noise. He stumbled awkwardly, dropping over a tall square of hay which protested over his weight. His breathing was heavy, chest rising and falling rapidly. His right hand held his left side steadily, where crimson drops slipped through his pale fingers and onto the cold ground below.

But it was none of that which made her limbs turn to stone, her body pressed back in her hiding spot. It was the color of his hair, falling long down his shoulders, impossible to miss even in the dark. Silver as the moon in the sky, framing a pale face with a jaw and cheekbones so sharp they could be made of steel instead of bone. His eyes, a dark unearthly indigo, seemed dazed, unfocused, looking around him as though in search for something. He wore a black velvet doublet over a blood her tunic, a three-headed dragon embroidered at the front, its six eyes in rubies.

She had never the man before, had never cast eyes on his figure, and yet he could only have one name: Rhaegar Targaryen.

She took in a breath, biting her tongue hard in order to not make a sound, and yet unable to leave. The man was still oblivious to her presence, his blood covered fingers traveling to his belt, pulling out a dagger with a trembling hand. Even from the short distance she could she the dark ripples in the blade, where the steel had been folded night a thousand times over: Valyrian Steel. The expression on his face, so unnaturally handsome, seemed haunted, vacant, his hand lifting the dagger’s sharp edge firmly to his left wrist…

“Your Grace!” She jumped forward, her body acting before she even had time to think, snatching the sharp blade from his trembling fingers and throwing it as far away as she could, watching the silvery weapon sliding over the ground.

Indigo eyes found hers, for a moment startled, as if wondering from where she had come from, and then in a split second they darkened, the previous haze that seemed to cloud them gone. And she could not move, not under the pressure of such piercing eyes that held her in place and cut through her very soul, as sharp as the blade had been, unforgiving. She had never seen eyes like those, so cold, so fierce.

It took him only a second to realize what had happened, to wake up from whatever dark fog that had engulfed him before, his face travelling to where the dagger now lay innocently on the ground. A minuscule cut on his left wrist was all the evidence that remained from the incident, a single droplet of dark crimson sliding down his skin.

“Forgive me,” He spoke, voice raw, running his hand over his forehead, smearing it with blood. She did not miss how his jaw tensed in apparent anger, fingers curling into fists.

And still, all she had eyes for was the still blooming red patch on his left side. What happened? How was it even possible?

“Your Grace, you’re…” She went to touch his side, in order to stop the bleeding, but pale fingers squeezed her wrist sharply, so strongly that blood stopped flowing to her hand.

He pushed her hand aside almost violently, and she instinctively took a step back, even though he did not even turn to look at her again. She didn’t know what to do, her heart at her throat. He would not let her near him, that much was clear. But he needed help. Should she fetch a Maester? One would surely come running if they heard it was the crown prince who was in need of their skills. But what would she say that would not condemn her? There was no one else to be seen? How would she prove that she had had nothing to do with the prince’s current state?

The sound of approaching footsteps woke her up from her thoughts, her heart once again racing in fright. She should run, she should flee, before she was seen, but her legs would not react, she was rooted in place.

“Rhaegar!” She heard a voice calling, only seconds before a slim figure in white armor entered the stables, violet eyes only briefly falling on her before rushing to the prince’s side in alarm. A second Kingsguard followed, not even registering her. They must have been following their Prince, wherever he had come from.

Still it was the first one of the Kingsguard who noticed the tiny narrow cut on the dragon prince’s wrist, eyes easily finding the dagger on the ground, not too far away from her feet.

“Take him inside.” She heard him order his sworn brother, the latter sliding the prince’s right arm over his shoulder and pulling him up to his feet.

She ran. Hay tangled with her leather boots as she moved as fast as her legs would take her, but it was not enough. Hands gripped her by the shoulders, and she felt the impact as her back was suddenly slammed against the wooden wall, the cold edge of a sword suddenly at her throat, silver pommel drinking in the silver glimmer of the moon.

She did not dare even breathe, just one move, one swift slice and her life would end. What had she gotten herself into? Sweat covered the palms of her hands, feeling small under a pair of dangerous violet eyes.

“What are you called ?” The Kingsguard’s voice hissed at her menacingly, pressing the blade a little harder against, her skin, forcing her to push her head further back.

“I….I’ve done nothing..” She stammered, stumbling over her words in fright. “I swear…I’ve done nothing….”

“Your name!” The knight pressed, his voice sharper.

“Ly…Lyonell Sn..Snow.” She lied. The same lie she had told nigh every man she had met since departing from Winterfell.

“Now listen to me carefully, Lyonell Snow.” The knight’s voice hissed at her face, his warm breath brushing her skin. “You have seen nothing here. Do you understand? Speak not a word of this or it will be the last words you ever speak. Do I make myself clear?”

“Y..yes.” She managed to get out, sharp eyes cutting through her a second longer before suddenly letting go, turning his back on her without even one last glance, leaving her alone in the darkness of the night, where not even the moon seemed to cast any light….


	4. Rhaegar

Dawn was breaking. He could see the soft lilac light washing over the room as he blinked his eyes open, the gulls singing somewhere in the distance. The first thing he became aware of was a nagging throb behind his eyes, making him groan in displeasure.

“Good morning.” An all too familiar voice echoed in the morning air, and he did not need to turn to feel those violet eyes glued on him.

He did not say anything, even though he felt that perhaps he should. Still he was only thankful that his friend did not seem to have been expecting any kind of greeting in return. Instead he rose to his feet, rummaging through the room in silence and throwing on the first pair of breeches and doublet he was able to find, not caring to see if they even matched. They would, in any case, since everything he owned was either black or red, there was not much room for mistakes.

“You stayed there all night?” He turned to face Arthur, his voice coming with a bitter taste, fingers still busy fastening his doublet. The Sword of the Morning look too comfortable where he was, reclining back over a cushioned chair, using another one to rest his feet, right hand slicing lazily through a wedge of cheese before stuffing it in his mouth.

“Someone had to.” Was his friend’s reply, eyes meeting his, as if patiently daring him to say otherwise. But he didn’t.

He crossed the room in long slow strides, his footsteps deaf in the rich carpet underneath. And there was that feeling again, stirring in the pit of his stomach, same as every morning that he found his friend sitting attentively in that very same spot. The very thought of it angered him, for it meant that once again he had slipped.

He gave a lazy slap at Arthur’s legs, the latter rolling his eyes before removing them from the chair, allowing him to take the seat. Silently, the Kingsguard offered him the cheese knife, turning the golden tray in his direction, but he shook his head. His stomach roiled with the mere idea of putting anything in his mouth at the moment.

“What did you give me?” He finally asked, leaning back comfortably on his seat and closing his eyes for a moment, not needing to see in order to picture Arthur slicing yet another piece of cheese. He knew his friend was the culprit of the fog that clouded his memories. He remembered everything clearly, everything except going to bed.

“Dreamwine.” Arthur replied in between chews. That explained it. He should have guessed.

“There was no need for that.” He sighed, fingers massaging his forehead in an effort to chase away the incessant hammering.

“There _was_ need, Rhaegar.” His friend’s tone had changed, the previously light and soft voice suddenly sobering up, making him open his eyes in order to meet the stern look his friend was throwing him. Another wave of anger boiled inside him all the fiercer: his friend was babysitting him.

“What happened last night?”

There it was. He had known the question would surely be coming, and yet part of him had hoped that Arthur would decide not to ask. The words hung hollowly in the air, unanswered, long minutes of silence dancing between the two.

The Sword of the Morning cut another slice of cheese.

“What were you going to do?” The cheese knife hit the polished wooden table with a loud echo, violet eyes fixing him firmly.

He did not look away, meeting his friend’s cutting gaze with one equally as sharp. He had never been one to cower from others. And still he did not answer. He would not answer.

“What were you planning to do with that dagger, Rhaegar?” Arthur snapped, a combination of anger and fear lining his sun-kissed face. “What would I have found had that boy not been there by chance?”

“It matters not.” He said dismissively, wanting nothing more than to deviate the conversation from that particular topic, rising from his seat.

“It matters not?” He could hear Arthur chuckle dryly from behind him as he reached the long narrow window, eyes casted to the courtyard below with disinterest. “Rhaegar, what were you _thinking_?”

“Remember your place.” He hissed, turning back sharply.

Arthur froze in place, a perfect statue, with a blank face, and blank eyes. He could have been one of the dragon skulls that lined the throne room.

“I have not forgotten my place, _Your Grace_.” His friend’s voice stretched coldly, and he felt that horrible claw tearing his insides with remorse. He never pulled ranks with Arthur, and his friend was very much aware of that. “However I fear that perhaps it is you who have forgotten yours.”

The Prince of Dragonstone sighed in defeat, turning his back on the window in order to fully face his stubborn friend. “Not now.”

“You need to remain strong Rhaegar.” The Kingsguard’s tone softened to a soothing whisper, as if perfectly able to discern the defeat he knew must be showing on his face. “The realm needs a strong ruler, and you and I both know the king is not one. You cannot appear to be unstable or weak in any way, especially with the whispers going around about your House’s madness. The Lords of Westeros will not support you if you are seen as weak.”

“I know.” He exhaled, returning to the seat he had only just vacated. It had been perhaps only an hour since he had woken, and yet he already felt exhausted. Out of the corner of his eyes he noticed Arthur following him, his loyal shadow.

“The wound on your side was stitched last night, by the way.” Arthur called out softly from behind him. “Be mindful of that so that you do not rip them, don’t know if you’ve even noticed.”

“I noticed.” He lied, and he could not have cared less if his friend caught the lie or not. At least Arthur knew him well enough to let the subject die there. Now that Arthur had mentioned it he could feel the dull pain on his side, just beneath the last rib on his left. He no longer noticed such aches. If the pain was not hindering, then it was as though he did not even feel it any longer, so used to it being always there, somewhere, that it felt as natural as breathing.

“I was thinking…” Arthur started gently, mouth curving in a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. “Perhaps tonight we can sneak out, you Oswell and me, and go around the city like we used to. You could bring your harp…see how much coin you can make this time?”

“Perhaps.” He wanted to at least try a fake smile in return, but it would not happen. He appreciated his friend’s efforts, but such days were old gone. Now, those few nights that had been previously filled with music were filled with terrors and ghosts and the visions that nearly doubled in intensity for the past year, no longer letting him sleep…

“The boy?” He changed the subject, suddenly remembering the thin short figure in the stables. He had almost forgotten about that. He truly must have been beyond himself the night before, for he could have sworn for a brief second that it had been a _girl, _he had seemed so….delicate. Still the boy posed a threat now. He could not afford for rumors to start about _himself_ now. Arthur was right.

“He will not speak of what he saw.” Arthur sounded sure of it, even though he was still dubious. “I made it very clear.”

An eyebrow rose high on his forehead at his friend’s words, but he thought it better not to ask for details.

“Who is he?”

“Called himself Lyonell Snow.” _Snow_. A bastard from the North. “I did some inquiring around the Keep. Some hedge knight from the North that’s here with the other warriors for training.”

“And why is a northern boy joining the Crown’s army? Could he be one of Varys’ little birds?” They were everywhere, always watching, always listening, hiding in every corner, in every shadow.

“There is no way to be sure at the moment, but I doubt it. His birds are usually a lot younger.” The Sword of the Morning shook his head in reply. 

“Whoever his liege lord is, you can be sure is fighting for the rebellion. Lord Stark called his banners a moon’s turn ago, last I heard he had reached Riverrun.” Something did not quite add up. Or perhaps it was just him, being too much like his father, seeing ghosts everywhere he went. But the boy had seemed…odd. Too skinny to even be able to lift a heavy sword, and he was supposed to be a knight?

“So I’ve heard.” Arthur nodded. “It seems you will not be receiving your intended bride, after all.”

“Shame.” He cocked his head slightly to the side, and maybe he would have chuckled if such a thing still came naturally to him. “Have you taken a look at the men yet?”

“I have.” Was the only reply he got, and almost involuntarily his fingers curled into fists. The Kingsguard’s lack of further information only confirmed what he already suspected. Still he insisted, needing to hear it.

“And? Are they competent?”

He watched Arthur round the heavy wooden table patiently, stretching his time before providing an answer. Finally, his friend sat down on the empty seat next to him, hand reaching for the cursed cheese knife once more.

“No.”

Rhaegar cursed under his breath, and for a second he had the urge to slam the golden tray with the half-eaten wedge of cheese across the room. But he didn’t. It would help nobody.

“They are mostly farmers, or fishers, a few inn keepers and traders…..some beggars, burglars, smugglers, and other criminals. I believe only a handful of knights, and about a quarter are sellswords.”

But of course. He should have been able to guess it would be that way. What was he to expect when it had been his own father the one to choose which army he was to lead? The king wanted him dead. That much was clear. How was he supposed to even hope winning any battle against seasoned warriors when his own one were nothing but a flock of green boys. Could his father not see that he was attempting to staunch the rebelling for the sake of their own House?

“Are they training at least?” He rubbed the back of his neck. He could already feel the muscles tensing and cramping there. As if he did not have enough things to worry about.

“Yes. Ser Barristan is leading the training for the morning. I’ll be there myself for the afternoon session.” It was more than he had hoped for, half-way expecting to hear that his army would be trained by the cooks.

“Thank you.” It wasn’t Arthur’s responsibility to oversee any sort of training, except those of the Kingsguard, and he had the feeling that the particular arrangement had been made by the sworn brother’s themselves, having nothing to do with the king. “Where’s Oswell?”

“Outside, guarding your door. Along with the lion cub.”

“Come.” The Prince of Dragonstone rose to his feet, not even waiting to see if his friend was following before making for the door. “Get Oswell, and send Ser Jaime to do something else, I don’t care what. We need to decide on a strategy if I’m to convince Lord Mace to join my cause and all I have in my favor is a bunch of farmers. I’m tempted not to take any of them with me, and to go by myself instead. And where is the king at the moment?”

“In the Throne Room.” He heard Arthur’s voice from behind him and he turned his face to look at him, throwing him a wordless question. “There have been no burnings yet.”

“Good.” That much was good news. He knew word had already spread of the king’s madness, too fast to stop it any longer. Yet all they could do was hope to treat them as mere rumors…..that if the king did not stop to make his burnings publicly in the middle of audiences.

They met Ser Oswell just outside the large wooden door, the young Lannister boy, no more than sixteen years of age, glowing in his new white armor, looking too proud to be donning it. He almost felt pity for the boy, who was oblivious of the fact that he had only been appointed to the Kingsguard because the king wanted to strip Lord Tywin of his heir.

“Oswell, come with us. Ser Jaime, go assist Ser Barristan down in the courtyard.” He could hear Arthur giving out instructions, but this time he did not turn to look, making his way down the long suffocating corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast.

He stood taller, his footsteps longer, decisive. He was no longer in the safe confinement of his bedchambers, and out here the walls had eyes, they had ears, the birds sang and the spiders casts their webs. Out here, every single one of his movements was being watched. How was he to stop this rebelling that was already cornering them from nearly every side? More so, how was he to _survive_ it? There were plans to be made, letters to send. But first, he would head down to the training grounds himself…. He needed to take a look with his own eyes at the group of men that was supposed to be his army….


	5. Lyanna

Everything hurt. Her arms felt as though they would fall off and she was sure that by the end of the day her hands would be full of blisters. The sound of metal hitting metal rang in her ears, engulfing the entire courtyard and bouncing off the thick stone walls of the nearby towers.

She barely saw the next blow coming, only just managing to raise her shield in time, feeling the strength of the blow vibrating all through her left arm and reach her shoulder. She stumbled backwards, biting her bottom lip. The man against which she had been paired was stronger, a tall mass of pure muscles, who smelled as though he had not washed in years. But she was quicker.

Still with every blow she received she felt part of her ego bruise as well. She had thought she was better than she was proving to be. What a naïve notion that playing at wooden swords with Ned and Benjen would have somehow prepare her to face other stronger men…. Still it was definitely better than sewing.

“_Enough_!” Ser Barristan’s voice boomed over the courtyard, followed by the echo of swords dropping to the ground in near unison.

A blow landed on her shoulder, just as her own long sword dropped from her hand.

“He said enough!” She hissed at the large brute who still continued to hit her as though it was a game, a toothless grin on his scarred face. “Enough!”

The man threw her a dark look before spitting on the ground and walking away, dragging the battered training sword he had been given over the dusty ground, leaving a trail behind. Lyanna let her head drop, hands resting on her knees. She could barely catch her breath, sweat covering her forehead.

The sun was high on the clear sky, burning down on them fiercely, the heat seeping through her clothes, through her boots, turning her skin pink. Curse the south and its heat. What would she not had given at that precise moment for just a little of bit of snow?

“In line, all of you!” She heard Ser Barristan suddenly calling, the men scurrying around quickly into formation.

She cursed under her breath, rushing to pick a place in the back row, where she would be lest seen. Whispers danced around her, some of the men suddenly stretching to stand straighter, taller. Her stormy grey eyes flew over the courtyard, trying to find the source of the commotion, the cause of the sudden shift in aura.

And she found it.

Through the perfect columns of men she could see them, still some distance away. Three figures, descending the stony steps of the keep’s main entrance. Her insides grey cold, heart skipping a beat, and for the first time she was glad that the man standing directly in front of her was twice her size. Still she did not look away, eyes glued to the figure in the middle.

He looked vastly different than he had the night before, standing tall, regal, his quick strides handling a kind of confidence that would make even the strongest man doubt himself. He looked every inch the man she had imagined, suddenly fitting all the different kinds of descriptions of him that had traveled to Winterfell. Yet now she wondered if all of that was true.

Just like the night before, the Targaryen beauty was hard to miss. Perhaps that was the only part of the tales she could confirm as truthful. His long silver hair was left loose, falling over his shoulders and back, his pale skin and sharp angles of his face making him look ethereal, almost inhuman. But the eyes had changed, no longer dazed and lost but focused and sharp, cutting through everything he aimed gaze at like cold indigo ice.

Her insides twisted, and she had to wipe de sweat of her palms on her breeches. Why was she so nervous all of a sudden? And yet, the moment his eyes flew over her column she shifted, angling herself just so as to be completely obscured from view by the large in front of her. And yet, contrary to her, every other man in the crowd seemed to want to be seen, to want to be noticed. He had seen her last night, but did he remember her face? She hoped he didn’t. But then again, there was the Sword of the Morning, walking dutifully behind the Dragon Prince like a shadow. She looked away. She could almost feel it again, cold steel against her neck, violet eyes burning through her. He _would_ remember her face.

Silence reigned in the preciously hectic courtyard, even the ravens perched over the peaks of towers suddenly mute. The Prince’s eyes flew over the men without really looking at any of them, merely walking along the columns with a blank disinterested expression. And then, without so much as a word he made a gesture with his right hand, turning around and continuing his march, his two white shadows following close behind.

She let out a breath she did not know she had been holding, barely making out the words that Ser Barristan was saying. And then the men were moving, the perfect columns braking, metal swords being picked up in exhausted hands.

“Lyonell…Lyonell!” Her head turned in the direction of the voice, finding a round pair of misty blue eyes watching her curiously.

“Did you forget your name?” The young boy questioned her, lips curving up in a shy smile. “I’ve called you almost five times.”

“Sorry, Harrold.” She muttered. The men had already dispersed, she had not even seen them moving. “What did Ser Barristan say?”

“Did you get hit in the head?” The boy looked at her oddly, his still round cheeks flushed with exertion. “Nothing much, we can take a break to have a meal and then we are to return for the afternoon.”

_Great_. Another thing to look up to: more beating. She nodded her head, picking up her practice sword and making her way to her poor excuse of a tent, openly ignoring the boy who continued to follow her like a lost child. He reminded her of Benjen somehow, perhaps that was why she had been drawn to him in the first place, too young to even be allowed to take part in a war. And yet here he was.

There had been no news of the war since she had disembarked in King’s Landing. None. She had seen the ravens, tens of them, flying in and out of the Red Keep, and yet whatever news they brought were kept silent. It was frustrating, almost maddening. She had been so used to getting news on everything, to hearing the letters being read out loud directly by the Maester in Winterfell that she had almost taken the luxury for granted. And now all she could hope for was catching if only a rumor from one of the servants. But they did not talk of the war.

No. They talked a lot. That they did. She had seen mouths pressed to ears in almost every corner, hiding behind hands to prevent their lips being read, whispering things left and right. And yet all they talked about were gossips, about the ladies, the lords, the knights, about the King and volatile moods, about the Queen who was apparently barely seen at all in the Keep, always concealed in her chambers inside Maegor’s Holdfast…. One night she had heard one of the chamber maids whisper to another that Lord Tywin had convinced the King to marry Prince Rhaegar and his daughter Lady Cersei. And the following night she had heard one of the cooks swearing by the seven that the Prince was to marry Elia Martell. And the following day it was said that the Prince was bedding lady Ashara Dayne in secret….and the next it was lady Cersei the one he was bedding……

She closed the flap of her tent behind her, throwing the beaten practice sword haphazardly over her cot. Her small hand reached under the straw, feeling the bite of the cold metal against her skin, pulling it out of its hiding place. It was beautiful. The hilt was of pure gold, lacing with black onyx in intricate patterns, and around the pommel curled a three headed dragon, all in solid gold, its six eyes in rubies. There were over a thousand ripples in the blade, seeming to dance and glimmer as she moved it in the light.

Almost in a trance she let her thumb glide over the edge, if only to test it, to find out if it truly was as sharp as it should. She hissed, nearly letting the dangerous blade fall to the ground, sucking the blood from her thumb. It was sharp. Then what had he intended to do with it? Why would he have pressed such a dangerously sharp dagger against his own body? Why would the Crown Prince, the heir to the Iron Throne, the man who had everything he could possibly desire at his disposition wish to harm himself?

She didn’t know why she had kept the dagger, why she still had it, hiding under her cot. But she had not been able to leave it there, where it had landed, still glimmering like a ghost under the moonlight once the Kingsguards had disappeared with their Prince. But she had kept it. She had not wanted for it to be found there by anybody else, did not want for any evidence of the strange events remaining behind….but why? What difference did it make to her?

The Afternoon passed in a blurr, her arms aching too much for her to deliver a proper blow on her opponent. Luckily this time she got one of the younger boys, a skinny uncoordinated lad with a head full of unruly dark curls whose name she could not remember. The boy seemed as tired as she was, so they spent the afternoon swinging at each other lazily, attempting to stay as far away from Ser Arthur Dayne’s watchful eyes as possible. The Sword of the Morning had replaced Ser Barristan for the afternoon training, and even though her stomach had twisted and hear heart had raced for the first hour, he never so much as turned her way, allowing her to relax for the remaining of the session.

However, it wasn’t until the sun had started to set in the horizon, when they had been dismissed for the night and the men dragged their exhausted feet across the courtyard that she found a pair of unyielding violet eyes fixed on her, beckoning her with a hand.

She felt the blood drain from her face, and yet she did not falter. She would not show fear, and she would not show unease. The direwolf did not cower. She was from the North, and a Southron knight, no matter how renown, could not frighten her.

“Ser Lyonell.” The Sword of the Morning spoke softly, towering half a head above her in his shining white armor and cloak, the famous sword _Dawn_ handing form his belt majestically. “You are to come with me.”


	6. Lyanna

_…Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four. _Her foot finally reached the top landing of yet another spiraling staircase. She could feel the cold, sleeping form the massive blocks of stone, caressing her arms, her legs, seeping through her worn too large tunic and breeches.

She swallowed, following the Sword of the Morning as he turned right on a long windowless corridor. She had lost track fo where she was, of how many turns they had already taken. Inside, the Red Keep was proving to be larger than it looked. She would not be able to return the exact way she came from even if she tried. 

The silence was the worst of all. Ser Arthur Dayne had not once turned to face her, not making a single sound since they had left he ample courtyard what felt like hours ago. Now, all she could hear was the loud echo fo their footsteps, drumming in the silence and bouncing off the stone….stone that had never before seemed more alive. She felt as though the walls could see her, following her tiny figure through every crack and hole, always watching, listening, whispering.

Another right, then another set of spiraling steps, going higher and higher. Every once in a while, they would pass a narrow window piercing through the imposing walls, and only then could she see the massive thickness of the stones, almost two feet deep. And still, not even the sporadic windows seemed to allow any light to enter into the darkened halls, almost as if the Keep would not let it, swallowing every ray on sunlight before it could get in. Not that there was much light in the first place. Outside, the sun was already setting, the sky turning redder than the stone.

Left this time, another hallway.

They were inside Maegor’s Holdfast. She had felt her heart skip a beat the second they had reached the bridge that separated the rest of the Keep front he Royal Apartments, every step feeling as though it was a step closer to her doom.

Another right. A staircase. Then left.

She nearly ran into the Ser Arthur’s back, stopping only inches from his cloak, not noticing that he had stopped. Her eyes lifted, gaze departing form the gray stone floor to which it had been glued for the fast twenty minutes.

“Wait here.” Came the instructions in a short voice, and she managed to nod her head in reply, not trusting she could find her voice to speak.

She followed the Kingsguard’s back, disappearing through the ornate frame of a massive pair of wooden door just in front of her. Her fingers shook, and she curled in fists, trying but failing miserably to stop her heart from beating like a caged bird inside her chest.

Ser Arthur reappeared sooner than she had hoped, his right hand holding one of the doors open for her, standing to the side. She swallowed thickly, even though her throat felt as though it had suddenly clogged. Nerves twisted her inside, feeling the weight of those violet wat hugs eyes following her every move.

At first she thought the large room was empty. Her small steps were muffled by an exquisite Myrish carpet, and to the right she could se a large fire burning hot on the stone fireplace, the flames licking the floor and walls, bathing the room in orange.

The heavy doors clicked behind her, startling her, sealing her only way out completely.

Lyanna took another step, the soft threads of the carpet parting under her feet. The ceiling vaulted high above her head, high enough to build a small house inside. There were a couple of high-backed chairs by the fireplace, and nearly every single one of the high stone walls seemed to be covered with books, the bindings in every size and color.

A faint scratching sound made her turn, for the first time realizing that she was not alone in the ornate room. He had not bothered to acknowledge her presence, even though she knew he was aware of it. He sat quietly on a round wooden table placed outside in a large balcony, right hand making a quill dance over a roll of parchment, eyes casted down. Another figure stood but his side, wrinkled hands folded over his back, a Maester, judging by the many links in the chain that hung form his frail neck.

She stood there, unsure of what to do, facing the two figures who did not once turned in her direction. Should she make a sound? Should she make her presence known? But then again both figure knew she was there. And she did nothing, her eyes briefly glancing behind her shoulder, only to confirm that the door through which she had entered was indeed still closed.

She watched in silence as the prince put the quill down, using a nearby candle to let a drop of thick red wax fall on the yellow scroll, pressing down his own seal on it. Wordlessly, he handed it to the Maester, who took it in his long bony fingers before bowing his head, walking past her and out of the room in complete silence, only the high-pitch clicking of his chain echoing behind him.

It was then that the prince lifted his gaze, not needing to search about the room to find her right away, the unnatural indigo shade cutting through her sharply. And there it was again, that unnerving feeling that he could see right through her and into every nook of her mind, her soul.

“Your Grace.” She stammered quickly, instinctively going for a curtsey before remembering that she was supposed to be a man, switching for a bow half-way through and only managing to make the most awkward of motions he had probably ever seen.

He raised an eyebrow and she cursed inwardly, watching him lean back comfortably on his chair.

“You should practice that bow of yours.” The words floated out of his mouth effortlessly, his unnaturally handsome face remaining stoic, betraying not a hint of what could be possible going through his mind.

“I pray you forgive me, Your Grace, I have never quite mastered the art.” She did not know how she managed for her voice to sound as steady as it did, somehow standing straight, not crumbling under the piercing gaze that would not depart from her.

“It is a shame.” He said, even though his voice betrayed no hint of empathy toward her. And she knew that he was measuring every move she made, every word that left her mouth. “I would have thought that knowing how to make a proper bow would be standard knowledge to someone of your stature, _Ser_.”

_He knows I’m no knight._ She could see it in his hard cold eyes. He had changed since the morning, now dressed all in black, the color contrasting sharply with his pale skin a silver hair.

“Still it is not every day that I find myself in the presence of the Crown Prince. I must apologize if such an honor-”

“Flattery will get you nowhere.” He cut her off sharply, and she bit hard on her tongue. “If I wished to hear compliments I need only go find one of the ladies at court.”

“Then what is it you wish to hear, Your Grace?” She added bluntly.

A long second of silence stretched inside the room. Outside the sky had turned completely black, only a few stars lighting up the moonless mantle. She watched him patiently reach for a golden decanter that rested on the center of the table, just where a few trays of fruits and sweet cakes lay untouched, seemingly forgotten. He poured two crystal goblets of the rich red wine, Dornish, she could tell by the scent, offering one in her direction but she shook her head. No matter how tempting the offer, at that moment wine would not do. She needed her head clear, could not afford a single misplaced word or it could cost her life, and she already knew she had a hot temper. He made no comment on it, simply raising his own goblet to his lips.

“Who are you?” He broke the silence, skipping directly to what he clearly wished to know.

“I am called Lyonell Snow, Your Grace.” She repeated the lie she had told so often for the past moon that she was now starting to believe it herself.

“I know what you are called.” There was a dangerous edge to his voice, making her shift on her feet. “How old are you?”

“Ten and five, Your Grace.” She lied again. There was no point in telling him she was ten and seven, not when she was well aware that she did not have a man’s body and the best she could hope for to keep up with her lie was to pass for a younger boy.

“Ten and five.” He repeated, as if tasting the words in his mouth. He looked tired, she suddenly noticed, shadows ghosting underneath his eyes, even though his face betrayed none of his thoughts, as cold and unyielding as the stone around them both. “…and already knighted. I must say I’m impressed. Even Ser Jaime who was knighted extremely young was already ten and six.”

She cursed mentally for not thinking of that beforehand. Still she did not falter, she would not let him see through her right now, especially not right now, when his unnatural indigo eyes cut through her like that.

“You must be very skilled, I presume.” He continued, slender dinger taking the goblet once more to his lips. “You must show me your talents some day, I’m eager to judge for myself.”

“It would be an honor, Your Grace.” She recited the only answer that was left open to her. She could not say no without needing to explain herself, without giving away her lies. But then again he already knew she was lying.

“And why is such a skilled knight, with a northern name no less, in King’s Landing? Have the Lords of the North not called all their banners?”

Her heard skipped a beat, sweat once again covering her palms, but she did not move, did not even flinch, matching his stare with the same fearless intensity. She was threading dangerous waters; it would not do to drown this early.

“I follow no banners.” She countered, knowing that she was only going deeper and deeper, and what if she could not get out after?

“Then what are you doing in my army?” He leaned forward, each one of his moves so grateful, so effortless, resting his elbows on the table’s polished surface and lacing his hands together.

“Fighting a war.” She cocked her head to the side, offering him a a slight smile. For a second anger flashed inside those impenetrable indigo eyes, but it was gone before she had time to even be sure she had seen it.

“Against whom?”

“The enemy.”

_Careful, Lyanna._ She was dancing with the Dragon, waltzing back and forth, waiting to see if he truly breathed fire. _But there is only one of us who can burn._

“And which northern noble House do you serve?” He suddenly asked, eyes gleaming at her, victorious.

“I serve no banners.” She stated again, even though she already knew there was no fooling him so easily. He was more observant than she had thought.

“Spare me the lies, if you will. You were raised in a castle, judging by the manner in which you use your words and your stance. And your hands look too soft to have done any kind of hard work before. So, which noble house do you serve?”

She bit the insides of her cheeks, swallowing thickly.

“Umber.” She muttered the first House that came to her mind, for the first time casting her eyes down, as if she had been caught. She needed to keep up the act, and gods he was making it harder than she had thought he would. He was sharper with his wits than she had imagined, and it angered her that, although he had not yet uncovered the truth, he had already known that she was no knight, and was indeed from a noble House.

“The great House of Umber.” He muttered, as if savoring his words, and for a moment she had almost expected he would smirk, but his lips remained sealed in a thin line. And there it was, so very well concealed that she had almost not been able to see it underneath his stoic expression, but it was still there, that sadness, clouded deep in his expression, in his unyielding indigo eyes, so deep that it was easy to miss. And she could not understand why, but she ached inside for it. “Whose Lord follows Lord Stark south as we speak, with the rest of the Umber men. And yet, here you are…why is a bastard who serves House Umber here in King’s Landing?”

“Why is the Prince of Dragonstone leading an army made up of sellswords, farmers, beggars, and other criminals?” She countered his question with a question, suddenly feeling bolder than she knew was wise to be at the moment. “One might think these men belong more in Wall than in the Targaryen army.”

This time she was sure she did not miss it, the flash of anger than passed quickly through his eyes before disappearing, once again concealed from view, his perfectly angled face blank. How different would this first conversation with him had been had she been Lyanna Stark, coming by the hand of her lord father as the prince’s betrothed?

“You have a sharp tongue.” She did not miss the warning in his tone, nor the way in which his voice lowered somewhat.

“I have been told before.” She nodded her head daringly, lacing her hands behind her back, her grey eyes meeting his. “As sharp as _Valyrian Steel_.”

Silence swallowed the room, heavy, and cold. He had understood exactly what she had implied in her words, he was sharp enough notice, of that she was sure. And even though his face remained expressionless she could see his jaw tense, his body suddenly rigid. If he had not known she had the dagger, now he did.

_Careful, Lyanna. _She had to remind herself, still she did not know why she had felt the need to let him know, why it had felt so good to be on the winning end of this inquiry for once. If he wished to uncover all of her secrets she would remind him that she knew things he wanted kept quiet too.

“It’s as sharp as they say.” She continued, her voice dropping to merely more than a whisper, visibly inspecting her thumb where the blade had cut only hours before. The Dragon Prince had not moved, sitting there on his chair, tall and royal, and as still as a statue. A god-like statue.

“Worry not, Your Grace.” She started with a sigh, her voice softer now “There is no need for these silent threats disguised as inquires. Ser Arthur has already made his own threats very clear. Your secret is safe with me. I have no wish to part with my head just yet.”

And with that she turned on her heels, not giving him the time or the opportunity to add anything else, not even giving him the chance to dismiss her himself, crossing the large room in long strides, leaving the prince behind…


	7. Arthur

The throne rooms felt stuffy, the obscene height of the ceiling above his head did nothing to make the space feel less crowded. To left and right, the long stone hall was full, heads on the back row peeking over shoulders in order to get a proper view of the scene. Even the gallery seemed to have no more standing room. And he could not understand why.

He stood there, as he always did, behind the menacing throne, silent, unmoving. Aegon’s seat, forged out of a thousand swords with fire and blood. _It’s a treacherous seat._ He had seen the many cuts inflicted on King Aerys’ arms and hands, as he ran them un carefully over the still sharp edges of the blades. And to think that one day it would be Rhaegar to sit there…. _And that’s the only fate I cannot protect him from._

He could see his friend’s back form where he stood, standing tall and regal beside the massive throne, just a couple of steps in front of him. The Prince of Dragonstone was all dressed in black, the fine velvets adorned with rubies in the neck and sleeves, a silver brooch shaped as his House’s sigil glowing just where his collarbones met. _That has always been his color_.

Queen Rhaella was there too, which was a rarity, standing next to her eldest son. Despite her stunning silver hair, which fell down to her waist in intricate braids, and her large violet eyes that he knew could make any man swoon, she looked small, as though she wanted to make herself disappear. Her dress, all in silver, should have been the envy of all the ladies at court, and yet he did not need to look to know that every single lady present had eyes only for the dragon prince.

And then there were the massive dragon skulls that lined the hall, black bone drinking in the red shades of the torches, eye sockets watching everything in silence. He used to know the names of all of them, from the monstrous Balerion to the last tiny skull, when they had been boys and Rhaegar had taken the time to teach him every single one. He remembered it all too vividly, as though it had merely been a moon ago, walking up and down the long empty hall next to his best friend, trying but falling to pronounce all the names as fluidly as the prince did. But they had been only boys then, when the king was not yet mad, and when Rhaegar still smiled. 

But the king had never been completely sane. At least not that he could remember. The pitiful thin and ghostly man currently sitting on the throne had always loomed over Rhaegar like a shadow. Ever since he could remember since arriving at the Red Keep, with only seven years of age, he had seen things that perhaps nobody else ever had. And he had hated the man, hated him fiercely since the first day he had seen blood on his best friend’s back, when they were only eight.

And then there were the dreams. He had dismissed it the first time Rhaegar had mentioned them, believing them only nightmares and thinking himself, ad the tender age of eight, too grown to concern himself with such childish issues. _What a fool I was. _But then there had been that night, when the young prince had woken him form his sleep, even though he still had no idea how he had managed to escape Maegor’s Holdfast unseen. He would never forget the fear that had lingered in his friend’s indigo eyes that night, or the shaking edge in his voice when he had asked to sleep in his chamber for the rest of the night, afraid of the dark. And it was later that he had understood that it was not the dark which had scared Rhaegar so fiercely, but the shadows, the ghosts, the visions that he would see in it once the candles died down. The ‘dreams’ he had talked about were no mere dreams, were no mere nightmares. He had seen it that very same night, only hours after they had fallen back asleep….

And now there was that incident with the cursed Valyrian Steel dagger. He had not been able to stop thinking about since it had happened, had not been able to rip the image of the Prince of Dragonstone lifting the sharp bade to his own wrist…He remembered the raging fury he had felt once the initial fear had passed and his friend was already fast asleep with dreamwine. He had raged to Oswell about it for hours on end, fear for his friend returning to grip at his guts.

However, it had been Oswell the one to speak the words that still ran every second through his head. It had been after he had somehow calmed down, after he no longer could think of anything else to say, sitting on a corner with his head in his hands next to his sworn brother, trying to figure out what could have possibly being going through Rhaegar’s head to do such a thing. _“I don’t know, Arthur,” _Oswell had sighed, sounding defeated _“if I was in his place perhaps I would have done it years ago. I don’t know anyone who would have lasted this long.” _

A pitiful animalistic wail forced his wondering thoughts back to the present. He had missed most of what had been said, taking him a couple of seconds to remember what the scene in front of him was about. His eyes darted to the middle of the hall, where a scrawny boy kneeled. Arthur could almost catch the stench of the filthy rags he wore all way to where he stood.

Tears streamed down the boy’s hollowed cheeks, more wails leaving his mouth, even though it sounded as though he attempted to beg for his life. So a sentence had already been given. He had missed it. Gods he had even missed what crime the boy was guilty of.

Still, his insides churned. There was already movement around the room, those silent men in long dark robes that would always make him shudder suddenly stepping forward. He heard movement next to him, eyes turning briefly to glance at Jaime Lannister shifting uncomfortably on his feet. They boy was young still, too young to even be a sworn brother of the Kingsguard. _And this will no be the worst of the horrors he will see in his life. _

Both Ser Gerold and Ser Lewin remained unmoving, two perfect statutes that could have been carved out of stone. He envied that if them, always had. How they managed to seem so unperturbed by everything, always so composed, as if it required no effort at all. It always took an effort from him.

The wails were louder now, but he did not dare look. For a moment he was glad for his place behind the throne, where the King could not tell his eyes were casted somewhere else. Throughout the hall, eyes had shifted away as well, yet no body said a single word.

Ashara was there too. Her slim body had been easy to spot among the crowd of finely dressed ladies perched at the gallery. _Why did she have to choose today of all days to come? _Still, he hated that he could not walk up the steps and pull her aside from the scene.

The wails turned to screams, mixing with the disturbing cracklings of flames. For a second the haunting red tones that covered the throne room were washed in bright green, even the stone seeming to transform, sickening shadows dancing on the walls. But he did not look. Not even then. The animalistic screams were enough torture, no long seeming human….and in the back of the cries echoed another even more disturbing sound…the king, laughing. His stomach turned. 

And then it was over.

He could not tell how long it had lasted. He had not bothered to take the time, wanting to put the incident in the back of his mind, where he could not even revisit it latter. But the dim red light suddenly reclaimed the throne room once more, the bright green dying down.

The king was the first to leave the room, Ser Gerold and Ser Lewin walking behind him. And then the crowd dispersed, no one lingering behind to spare a single last glance to where the scrawny boy had stood, now only a black burnt spot on the stone and a pile of ashes. Not even the bones remained.

Rhaegar moving was his cue to do the same, following his friend down the long line of steps from the throne platform and into one of the many corridors that made up the keep. Arthur spared one last glance up the gallery, but Ashara was no longer there….nobody was there any longer. Had she watched? He hoped she hadn’t. _Still she has always had the gift of doing precisely what I hope she won’t do._

“Your Grace.”

He was startled out of his thoughts. _What kind of Kingsguard is so distracted he cannot even noticed someone approaching the prince? _ He had not even heard her footsteps had yet here she already was, boldly lacing her thin pale arm around Rhaegar’s, without waiting for the prince to offer.

“Lady Cersei.” Rhaegar’s voice was flat. He knew that tone very well, could tell exactly how his voice changed to become the Prince of Dragonstone when he needed to be. Still, his friend was too polite to say anything about the forward manner in which the girl perched to his arm.

Arthur almost laughed. The girl knew no limits. Oh, she far from being the only lady at court who swooned for even a tiny piece of the prince’s attention, but none of the other ladies were even half as bold as she was. How his friend did not pay the slightest attention to any of the ladies that drooled over him was beyond his comprehension.

_And if she seeks to gain Rhaega’r s favor, she picked the worst time. _The prince would not be in the mood for small talk. Not after what had just taken place in the throne room…

“It is good to see you up and about once more, Your Grace. We had all been so worried, I prayed at the sept every day for your swift recovery.” The girl continued sweetly, a perfect act. _And a ridiculous one. Rhaegar has been up and about for weeks now, as if she hadn’t noticed. _Nonetheless the act seemed absolutely genuine, except that there was always that unnerving feeling that the lioness gave him.

Cersei Lannister looked beautiful, as she always did. He did not miss how she kept her free hand running down the deep green silk of her skirts, as though smoothing it to perfection. As if Rhaegar would notice her dress…

“There was no need to worry.” Came the prince’s short reply, his indigo eyes turning toward’s the golden haired girl for the first time. “If you would excuse me, my lady, I have urgent matters to attend.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Cersei Lannister added graciously, even though Arthur did not miss how her perfect smile had stiffened. _ Somebody does not take well being let down. _

The delicate hand let go of Rhaegar’s arms, and Arthur had to admit that the girl still managed to looked poised and graceful, even in defeat. Still, the young lioness walked away with her head held high, oblivious that Rhaegar had not bothered to watch her leaving.

The prince had already continued his march, so the Sword of the Morning followed his quick strides, down long vaulted corridors and up many spiraling steps. _He’s too quiet, even more so than he usually is. _

“That girl does not understand the word no.” Arthur muttered with a slight chuckle, shaking his head. His white enameled armor clinked along with his steps. “I would not be surprised if you were to find her one day in your own bedchambers along with a Septon ready to marry you.”

“Let’s hope it never comes to that.” The crown prince added quietly, shaking his silver head, wincing slightly as he did.

“Rhaegar?” He stopped, watching as the prince imitated him. He eyed his friend who leaned both hands over the thick stone railing, where lines of thin columns stretched up in the shape of arches, carrying the heavy red stoned ceiling, sharp indigo eyes glancing emptily at the courtyard below.

The corridor was deserted, filled only by the distant echoes of sparring swords below, where the men practiced tiredly under Ser Barristan’s watchful eyes.

“I have a blasting headache.” His friend muttered with a sigh, closing his eyes.

“Have you slept at all?” He asked, even though he already knew the answer to his question. He could see the exhaustion in the prince’s face. Still, his insides ached in sympathy. _It is the dreams again…they are getting worse. _

Rhaegar did not answer, just as he had expected, but the silence that settled between the two was far from uncomfortable. Instead, he shifted to stand beside his friend, by the railing, eyes too sweeping through the crowd of men awkwardly swinging practice swords left and right. _They will never do. _

And yet, the dragon prince’s eyes were fixed on one of the figures in particular, one that was not hard to find in the crowd. The boy was clumsy at best, all too skinny and short to deliver a proper blow at his opponent, his dark waves sticking to his pale soft face. He was quick, though, but it was clear even form the distance that he lacked any proper technique in using a sword. All too soon his opponent was on him, a larger man nearly twice his size, the boy pinned to the ground, having lost grip of his sword.

“Not so skilled, the little Ser Snow.” He chuckled, almost hoping in vain that his friend would do the same, but the Prince’s lips remained pressed in that usual thin line, even though his head cocked to the side.

“He’s no knight.” Rhaegar spoke, piercing indigo eyes not departing from the figure that was once again rising to his feet, stubbornly picking up his sword once more.

“You believe he is lying?” His eyebrows rose high on his forehead, searching Rhaegar’s face for any sort of indication of what could be going through his mind.

“I know he is lying.” Came his friend’s reply, his voice low, jaw set tight. “Look at him, the boy does not even know the basics. I doubt that he has even squired before…let alone be a knight. What I cannot understand is why.”

Rhaegar had the truth of it, that much was clear. Gods he had seen squires holding a sword better than the boy did.

“You don’t trust him.” He guessed. But then again he had to admit that there was something odd about the boy.

“No.”

As if feeling the cold stare fixed on him, the boy suddenly looked up, grey eyes finding them easily in the distance. For a second, he expected Rhaegar to look away, but of course his friend did not, he never looked away, cold eyes cutting sharply through the tiny figure far below.

And then, the boy lifted a thin hand, waving in their direction before turning his attention back to his practice.

“Did he….?” Arthur could not hold back a laugh, turning to look at the prince whose jaw seemed to have set all the tighter. “Did he just wave at you?”

Oh, the boy had some nerve. Any other sane man would have cowered under Rhaegar’s piercing gaze. Gods, he would have cowered too, if he did not know his friend as well as he did.

“You find it amusing?” By the tone of his voice it was clear that Rhaegar did not.

“Pardon me, Your Grace, but I do.” He admitted still trying to stifle his laughter, and his heart clenched painfully as he was all too aware that he was the only one laughing of the two. Rhaegar could use some laughter too…Perhaps the boy was precisely what his friend needed….there was something refreshing about his bold and clumsy behavior.

“He has the dagger.”

“And you want it back.” The dagger. He did not need to ask to exactly which dagger the prince was talking about, and again anger clenched his chest at the mare mention of it.

However, his friend never answered in return, his attention stolen by the loud drumming of horse homes entering the courtyard. They were hundreds, perhaps even thousands, all dressed in expensive durable armor, their cloaks as read as fresh blood, dancing in the wind.

“So the Lannister men are finally here.” Arthur muttered under his breath. There had been ravens announcing their arrival, just as Lord Tywin had promised the king. Still, even if they were promised to aid the crown, Lannister men remained Lannister men…they would never be Targaryen.

“They were outside the city this morning.” Rhaegar closed his eyes briefly as he spoke, lifting one hand to his forehead before dropping it down. He made a mental note to ask the Grand Master for some milk of the poppy before the feast tonight. “I admit that when I first saw them I thought Lord Tywin was finally laying siege on King’s Landing.”

“Do you think he would be capable of such a thing?” He turned to face his friend, the men at the courtyard momentarily forgotten.

“I think Lord Tywin capable of doing anything that would benefit Lord Tywin.” His friend’s voice was low, barely a whisper.

“And still you would have married his daughter, if the king had not denied the match. I though you had no liking for the girl.” He spoke before he could stop himself, but he needed to say it. He had never understood why Rhaegar had not been against the match…or perhaps he understood it too well, and ti angered him that his friend would always place the realm before him. _But he’s the heir to the iron throne. What benefits the realm will always come before what’s good for him. _

“I do not.” The prince shook his head, wincing again as he did. “Lady Cersei is a beauty. No living man can say otherwise. But she too has claws, even if she hides them behind a charming smile and the sweet words her Septa taught her. Still, I would have married her if it had meant securing the Lannisters allegiance to the crown.”

“You deserve better than that girl, no matter how beautiful she is.” Arthur had to fight the urge to roll his eyes, eying his friend who shrugged in disinterest.

“It is not about what I deserve, but about what is best for the realm.” There they were, the words that had just gone through the Kingsguard’s head now coming out of the prince’s mouth. “The Lannisters are one of the most, if not the most, powerful House in the seven kingdoms. Securing their alliance would mean slimming the chances for any of the other house to rise against the crown.”

_But the alliance was not secured, even though the Lannister men was here in King’s Landing, making a show of their entrance. And the other Houses have risen. _

“And you are planning to do?” He studied his friend, his silver hair falling neatly over his shoulders, again the black fabric of his doublet. _His options are getting slimmer and slimmer. _

“First, getting back my dagger.”


	8. Rhaegar

His head felt as though it was about to explode. The music, the constant chatter, the laughter, the high-pitched clinking of silver cutlery rubbing against the plates…it was all too loud, the candle lights too bright. He should have accepted the milk of the poppy Arthur had offered him some hours ago. Now he regretted being so stubborn.

The feast had been going on for what felt like hours now, and he did not see it ending any time soon, to his further dismay. He took the shining silver fork in his hand, using it to move around some of the food on his plate. It would not do to let others notice his lack of appetite.

A serving boy passed by, filing his cup with more of the wine that had been flowing from goblet to goblet the entire night. Thad he did take to his mouth, hoping in vain that the strong beverage could lessen some of the hammering behind his eyes.

The moon shone bright and full that night, the weather for once perfect. There was not a trace of the suffocating heat that had ruled over the day hours before, the night bringing about a cool salty breeze from the sea that had not been felt in nearly two moons.

He could see the entire setting from his privileged seat at the dais, next to his father. _And the entire feast has a privileged view of me. _The grounds just outside the city walls looked blue and black in the night-lit sky, filled with hundreds of tables set about specially for this occasion. He could distantly hear Tywin Lannister, sitting at his father’s other side, the golden badge marking him as Hand of the King glimmering brightly in the candlelight for everyone to see. The man looked pleased with himself.

_He better be. All this ridiculous affair is meant to be in honor of his army._ An army of eighteen hundred men, whom he was not entirely sure were meant to help the crown at all in this war. He might as well find himself battling that very same army in the future if the Lord of Casterly Rock decided to switch sides if it became convenient.

The tune changed, one song ending to give space for a new softer one to begin. All around the grounds the attendees had already started to fill the made-up dance floor, the ladies twirling around in their expensive silks and velvets. The ones who had not yet gotten up to dance remained perched at their tables, exchanging words from ear to ear, eating, drinking. He could see Ser Jaime sitting by his twin sister a nearby table, among those seats of high honor closest to the dais, all in his brand new white armor, even though the young man was supposed to be standing guard that night. Lady Ashara was there too, looking beautiful in a violet dress that perfectly hugged her figure, the girl next to her catching him staring and immediately bursting into a round of giggles. He made an effort not to roll his eyes.

However, the loudest noise was coming from the back of the feast, away from all those places reserved for anyone who had a name or a tittle, where the make-shift long benches were set for the men. Both the Lannister men and his own army of green boys mixed together in common grounds. He could hear them shouting form all the way there, some dancing clumsily or singing, and he could bet his life that at least of them were already hopelessly drunk.

_At least some people are enjoying this affair. _Even in the chaos that it looked like, it would be better than where he currently sat. Not even Arthur could sit by him, his friend standing guard just behind him with four other Kingsguards.

His mother was not in attendance, even though part of him had hoped he would see her that night. But she had stayed at the Red Keep, safe within the city walls along with Viserys. He barely saw her at all.

“Eighteen hundred men?” He could hear his father’s croaky voice from his left, the mere sound sending chills down his spine. “Do you reckon that would be enough to teach those bloody traitors not to provoke me? How many men did I hear the Starks alone had? Four thousand?”

“Lord Stark and his men remain still in Riverrun with Lord Tully, Your Grace. The other half of my army is at Casterly Rock, waiting there in case the northerners decide to move, so we can intercept them. Robert Baratheon remains in the Stormlands, which means that he cannot join the northern army without crossing us, and he has noticeably fewer men than the Starks.” Lord Tywin answered without even a flinch, with the cold calculating voice of a battle commander.

_Still, eighteen hundred men are not enough, and he knows it. _

“Hasn’t Hoster Tully called his banners as well?” The king snarled, his long yellow nails digging at the wooded arms of his high-backed chair. “And if the Arryn’s were to join? Do not take me for a fool, Lannister, don’t you think I don’t know just how many men the Vale can procure.”

“Lord Hoster has called his banners, and only a few of them have joined them, the smaller Houses, Your Grace. There is yet to be an answer form Walder Frey, which makes me believe that the old man has no interest in sending his men to war.” The Lord of Casterly Rock spoke in a placating tone, not seeming in the slightest affected by the king’s darkening mood.

“The Vale of Arryn, Your Grace, could pose the largest threat at the moment. That is why it is imperative that secure the support of the Reach at once.”

“Did you hear that, boy?” the king’s pale lilac eyes turned sharply in his direction. _Viserys has those eyes, thought they are not yet clouded by madness. _The thin, cruel man facing him was merely a shadow of the man he had been for half of Rhaegar’s infancy, before the terror had started, when the prince had been only a little more than a toddler.

_Will the Iron Throne poison me in the same way?_ No. Perhaps it would drive him mad, it was the Targaryen curse after all. But he was sure that no matter how mad it could possibly render him, Rhaegar would bestow that level of cruelty on his own wife, or his own children.

“Too long you have waited here doing nothing!” The king continued with a snarl, spit coming out of his mouth and onto his white blond beard. “I have been too lenient and patient with you, allowing you the time you pleaded for your men to train. I will have no more delay! Assemble your army, you part on the morrow.”

“As Your Grace commands.” It was the only thing there was to say, unless he sought to make a spectacle in the middle of the feast. He was already aware of the eyes shifting in their direction, noticing the king seemed agitated. “However, Your Grace, I fear that marching to Highgarden with an army in tow may incite hostile reactions form the Reach. Lord Mace might not be as willing to aid should he understand our move as a threat.”

He watched his father attentively, that long pale and hollowed face seeming to be for once listening to something he suggested. He needed the king to listen this time. He needed the support of the Reach, though not for the purpose his father believed. And showing up with a full army waving the Targaryen banners would lessen his chances of making any peaceful proposition.

“The prince speaks wisely, Your Grace.” The Lord of Casterly Rock suddenly added, calculating grey eyes looking at him coldly, not letting anything through. He wondered what Lord Tywin had to gain in all of this. “It is not in our interest to have the Reach believe we are potential enemies.”

“Very well.” Rhaegar let out a breath he had not noticed he had been holding, tough his face betrayed no reaction whatsoever.

“Thank you, Your Grace.” It was more than he had hoped for, his head inclining respectfully in a move he had mastered all too long ago. “I would ask His Grace to grant me ten of his men, as well as four kingsguards to accompany me in such travel. And I will His Grace to considered giving me four days to arrange everything that will be needed.”

His father’s rotting teeth bared, yellow and crooked over his white beard.

“Two days.” The king spat. It better than on the morrow, so he nodded his head. He would take whatever was given at the moment.

“I’ll let you take three kingsguards.” His father snarled, long nails once again scratching over the wooden arms of the chair. “And make Jaime Lannister one of them. I’m sure the boy deserves the honor.”

_It is no honor, and you know it. You send him away if only to remind Lord Tywin that his heir is now yours to command._ Still, Rhaegar nodded his head, watching out of the corner of his eyes as Lord Tywin’s jaw stiffened if only a little.

“And as for the men,” His father’s teeth bared again, but this time in a smile, a cruel disturbing gesture that had his fingers curling into fists under the table, concealed from view. “you have your own army now. Pick your ten best.”

He bit the inside of his cheeks, hard enough to draw blood. The coppery taste filled his mouth, mixing with the remnant aftertaste of the wine.

“Of course, Your Grace.” He could feel his jaw nearly trembling with rage as he spoke, though he managed to keep his cool expression. “If Your Grace will excuse me, I will start making the necessary preparations right away.”

He did not wait for an answer, rising to his feet a little faster than he had intended. But the ghost of the man that had been his father seemed no longer interested in him, as though he was not even there, his face turned away towards Lord Tywin.

His head throbbed all the fiercer, protesting the change in position, and for a second his vision blurred from the pain hammering inside his skull. Still, he forced himself to walk straight, stepping down from the dais and away from the feast, head held high, doing his best to ignore the throbbing. Eyes followed his every move, he did not need to look to feel them, and he knew that the second he disappeared from view a thousand words would start flowing through the tables, making up hundreds of versions of his early exit.

“Shall I order for your mount to be fetched, Your Grace?” Arthur’s voice, though low, resonated like a shriek inside his head.

Of course his friend had followed him. He was both glad and angry that he had, all too aware that the Sword of the Morning had not left him out of sight since that night at the stables.

“No.” He said shortly. He did not particularly want to stay here, in the vast darkened grounds outside of King’s Landing, but he did not think he could take the sway and bumps riding horseback at the moment. At least not without his head finally exploding.

“Shall I fetch the Maester instead?” His friend’s voice had lowered, and he could feel those violet eyes studying him carefully, able to read him all too well. Perhaps too well.

“No.” Was his stubborn reply, not having the energy to sound half as angry as he felt. The last thing he needed was for word to get around that a Maester had followed him in his exit from the feast. “I need to be alone.”

Arthur’s mouth opened as if to protest, but he threw a glare in his direction, one swift meaningful look that changed his friend’s mind.

“Rhaegar.” Arthur called, using his given name as he did when there was nobody else to hear. Concern filled his friend’s face. “Can you ride for Highgarden in two day’s time?”

“I must.” He muttered, vaguely.

“I know you must.” His friend’s fixed him with a long look. “I’m asking if you can.”

“I suppose we will find out.” He shrugged, turning his back on his friend who obediently did not follow him, even though he knew that were it up to Arthur he would be right on his heels already.

Still, even though he hated to admit it, he shared his friend’s concern. Highgarden was a long journey. And tonight, the short ride from the Red Keep to this ridiculous feast had been the longest he had been on horseback since the accident, and his back and shoulder had already started to protest.

_It was no accident. I know it, and he knows it. _But there was no proving it. There would be no proving it. It all had been brilliantly executed.

He walked along the outer city wall, the massive mountain of stone casting a long shadow over his steps, blocking the silver moonlight. A couple of trees lined the clearing, the unusually cool breeze making the leaves sway and ruffle, the darkness reducing the green to dark grey. He picked one of the trees, lowering himself carelessly to the ground, against the rough bark of the trunk.

It was nice, sitting there, away from the noise, the music, the bright fires. At least here he could think, even if the pounding in his head made the task all the more difficult. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

A ruffling sound startled him, and then he saw it, not having noticed before. At first the shadow seemed indistinguishable, his first instinct being to grab for the holt of his sword at his hip, but he never managed to move his hand, the wind shifting the thick branches above just enough for the moonlight to fall through.

He recognized the short figure, with his large grey eyes, pale skin and waves of dark hair that barely reached his shoulders. And perhaps his head was indeed hurting too much for once again, in the darkness, he could have sworn that the boy was a girl.

He cursed under his breath.


	9. Lyanna

“Ser Lyonell”

Lyanna cursed her luck, forcing herself to meet those deep indigo eyes that pierced through her in the darkness. She had not even heard him approach.

“You Grace.” She returned the greeting with a short bow, as cold and disinterested as his had been.

“Have you been practicing?” The Dragon Prince mocked her bow, even though there wasn’t the slightest trace of humor in his voice. There never was. He was always so…serious.

She opened her mouth to reply, a bitter answer ready on her tongue, but she closed her mouth, throwing a long look at the man sitting on the grass just a couple of steps in front of her. Rhaegar Targaryen looked every inch the heir to the Iron Throne in all his glory. His black doublet was embroidered in hundreds of tiny rubies, the red so deep that it looked almost black in the darkness, glimmering dimly under the silver moon. His breeches were black too, and his boots, making his flawless skin look ghostly pale, his silver hair almost white. There were rings on his long slender fingers, forged in gold and silver, and more rubies, and an ornate broach in the shape of his House’s sigil rested just at the base of his neck, fastening the high collar of his doublet.

But there was something else too, that sadness that clung his figure like an aura, just as there had been that strange night at the stables. It was so subtle she was sure it would be easy to overlook, but nonetheless it was there, so evident to her eyes. Her grey eyes scanned around the darkened trees, searching for the white cloaks that seemed to always surround him, but she found no one near. He was alone.

“I do what I can, Your Grace.” She said instead, not knowing why but not finding it in herself to challenge him at the moment.

“Why are you not at the feast?” He bit at her, those sharp indigo eyes giving her the uncomfortable feeling that he could see right through her, one fine eyebrow raising high on his forehead.

“I would ask you the same thing, Your Grace.” She answered, not daring to take a single step forward. She could hear the noise in the distant, almost like a ghostly echo in the wind, the chatter, the music…

“I grew tired of it.” He muttered, closing his eyes for a second and leaning his silver head against the thick tree trunk. He looked pained, even though he did a good job at hiding it.

She didn’t know what she had expect in return, perhaps another cleverly bitter comment, but he did not seem to have the energy for that at the moment.

“Were you practicing?” His eyes motioned to the battered practice sword she had forgotten was still on her hand, the edgeless end dragging over the grass.

“I’m not very good.” She admitted with a shrug, once again not knowing why she did it, why she felt sympathy for the pained man sitting in front of her.

“No, you are not.” He agreed, studying her carefully, making her shift uncomfortably on her feet.

“Why pretend to be a knight?” The question caught her off guard, his voice barely more than a whisper. For a moment the words hung between the two, only the breeze rattling the leaves above their heads breaking the silence.

“I know not.” She finally sighed, eyes cast to the darkened grass. Pretenses be dammed. They both knew she was a lie. And yet part of her wished she had kept up the charade, but she had not been able to, not when his question had been filled with genuine curiosity.

_Careful Lyanna._

“A war is not a game.” He shook his head, looking at her strangely. “It is not like the songs and stories filled with heroes. Men die, horrible, painful deaths. Calling yourself _Ser_ might sound fancy, but it’ll bring you no glory if you get yourself foolishly killed.”

“I know.” She sighed once more, feeling childish under his heavy indigo gaze. But his words were true, even if he stilled ignored the real reason she was there in the first place, along with her true identity. She had questioned her own decision so many times already since boarding that ship at White Harbor. But she had not been able to stay in Winterfell with her arms crossed while her brothers and father risked their life fighting this cursed war.

The Prince let out a breath, pushing himself to his feet. He winced slightly as he stood tall and straight, even though she pretended not to notice. Still it was enough to spark her curiosity. She had not forgotten how there had been blood running down his side that night at the stables, and now too he looked to be in pain, but why? It made no sense.

“Hold that up.” His deep voice pulled her out of her wondering thoughts, one of his fingers elegantly pointing at the heavy sword in her hand.

She did as instructed, although hesitant, raising the sword as if ready to spar. But he shook his head, long silver hair brushing his shoulders, clicking his tongue.

“You are doing it all wrong.” He sounded annoyed, waving at her posture with a pale hand. “You lack the most basic technique. Who trained you?”

“I do not see how that matters, Your Grace.” She bit at him, even though he did not seem at all affected by her sudden hostility.

“It matters if you wish to survive.” He answered her almost dismissively, his left hand’s fingers suddenly tapping her right wrist. “Relax the grip.”

His skin felt abnormally hot to the touch, and almost instinctively her body tensed at the contact. _Must be the dragon blood._

“That’s somewhat better.” He observed, his face as serious and stoic as ever.

“Feet apart.” His right foot tapped her ankle this time.

“Why?”

She got no answer from his part, only his hand suddenly shoving her on the shoulder, hard enough to make her lose her balance. She stumbled on her feet, using her hands to break her fall as she crumbled over the grass.

“That’s why.” She heard him add as she brushed the dark green blades from her too large tunic. “For balance.”

A hand stretched in her direction, and she hesitated for a second before accepting it, letting him pull her to her feet with seemingly no effort at all. Once again his skin felt hot, his fingers calloused at the tips. And she liked the feeling.

_Stop it, Lyanna. You’re supposed to be a boy. Gather yourself._

“You have a lot to learn, _Ser_.” He added drily, letting go of her hand as soon as she was on her feet and turning his back on her.

“Will you teach me?” She blurted out before she could stop to think, watching as he turned around to face her, indigo eyes always unreadable, silent.

“No.” He said flatly, turning his back on her once more and returning to his previous spot by the tree, lowering himself to sit on the grass, trying once again to suppress a wince.

She stood there, awkwardly, not sure of what to do. The Prince of Dragonstone did not say a word, not even gazing in her direction again. Instead, he remained sitting there, his head leaning back against the trunk and closing his eyes, a slight crease appearing on his brow. He acted as though she was no longer there.

“If you would excuse me, Your Grace.” She broke the silence, her voice merely a whisper in the night. He did not open his eyes, only nodding his head.

She did not wait for any other sort of answer, turning on her heels as swiftly as she could and walking away. Some of the crowds that gathered at the feast had started to disperse. She could see them in the distance, walking around the open fields in groups.

She stopped some distance away from the line of trees, where the clearing opened along the tall city walls, the moon shining brighter here. She hesitated for a second, eyeing the single tall figure clad in white armor standing only a few feet from her. And she didn’t know why, or what drove her to do it, but she walked in his direction, the renown knight’s violet eyes finding her.

“Ser Arthur.” She greeted as the tall man cocked his head to the side, narrowing his eyes at her. Why was she doing this? How was it any of her business? Why did she feel concerned at all?

“His Grace is by the trees over there.” She pointed with her head towards the way she had come, still not understanding why she was doing this. He had not asked her to send for anyone, but then why was she worried? “He seems to be in pain.”

Those words were enough for the expression on the renowned knight’s face to change, tough he only nodded at her, quickly walking in the direction she had motioned without a second’s delay. Ser Arthur would know what to do, of that she was sure. The Prince would be in good hands.


	10. Lyanna

She was woken from her light sleep by the sound of the flap of her tent suddenly being pushed open. In a split second she was up, eyes blinking rapidly through the darkness, trying to adjust. Her hands rummaged over the sheets, desperately searching for a weapon, for anything that she might find to defend herself if necessary.

“Get up.”

That voice. It was barely more than a whisper and still it resonated like thunder in the stillness of the night. She recognized it immediately, her eyes locking on the black silhouette of the man it belonged to.

“Get dressed. Meet me outside.”

She was not given the time to even think of adding anything, the shadow turning his back and exiting the tent as swiftly as he had entered. Lyanna let out a breath, feeling her heart still hammering inside her chest. She slid out of the hard cot she had called her ‘bed’ for the past weeks, scanning for her boots and breeches in the darkness. Gods, she could barely see a thing. The air felt hot and sticky, making her tunic stick to her skin in the most uncomfortable way, the cool sporadic breeze that had filled the night at the banquet hours before long vanished.

She stepped out into the night, where the tall figure waited for her. The knight had his back towards her, arms folded neatly behind his back. He was not wearing his armor, the lack of it making his body look leaner, less heavy.

The grounds of the Red Keep were eerily silent, not even the ghost of the hectic noises and chaotic activity that went on during the day remained. Even the cam was quiet, the tents all lined up in the darkness, not a sound coming from any of them.

“I’m dressed.” She said, taking a hesitant step forward.

“Good.” The voice was flat, followed by a single nod of the head. And then, as swiftly as before the knight turned on his heels, walking past her and into her tent once more.

She followed in a rush, her heart rising to her throat until she felt like she could throw it up. Alarm gripped her bowels, nerves twisting her stomach as she entered the tiny tent. They had found her out. It had to be.

It felt crowded with only two people inside. It could barely fit one. Still, contrary to what she had feared, the knight had not rummaged through her things. He had not even touched them. He stood perfectly still, facing her, as though he had expected her to follow. His face was impossible to decipher, stern, proud, violet eyes watching her intently, making her feel uneasy.

“Where is it?” The words were cold, whispered lowly in the night. There was a warning edge in his voice, one that let her know he did not intent to repeat himself.

“Where is what?” She tried, but his eyes cut through her with such fierceness that she was sure he could see right through her.

“I’m giving you the chance to hand it over. If I have to look for it myself, I will.” His voice dripped ice, and she could almost feel the temperature inside the tent lowering.

Lyanna swallowed thickly. She knew better than to challenge such warning tone. Instead, she lowered herself to her knees, sticking her hand under the straw cot, fingers curling securely around the cold precious metal, pulling it out. The blade had been on her hand for less than a second before it was snatched from it, leaving her hand empty, fingers still curled over air.

She should have guessed someone would demand she returned the dagger sooner or later.

Still she had hoped it would be later. There was something about the dark blade, about the thousands of ripples that lined its sharp edges that resulted so alluring, so magical. And she didn’t know why but holding it secretly at nights, keeping it hidden, somehow made her feel as though she was part of a secret nobody else knew. But Valyrian Steel was rare and highly valuable. There was no chance such a fine blade would not be sought after, no matter the severity of the crime it had been about to commit when lost.

The knight sheathed the blade in his leather belt in silence.

“Will you give it back to His Grace?” She broke the silence, a wary silent face meet her gaze.

“It belongs to him.” _Not to you, _the words seemed to say, the Sword of the Morning turning around once more, a sun-kissed hand reaching for the tent’s flap.

“Will he try to use it again?” The words left her mouth before she could stop them, the knight suddenly freezing in place, violet eyes turning a shade darker, sharper.

“I know not what you mean by that.” Was all the answer she got, the warning tone in the words making her momentarily silent. Ser Arthur turned away from her, stepping outside the tent and under the night sky. “You must be confused.”

_You know exactly what I mean by that._ But she should have known that too. Of course nobody would talk about it.

“Follow me.”

The Sword of the Morning did not even turn to face her as he spoke, and she rushed on quick strides in order to keep up with his pace, not sure of where he was taking her. The sky gave no indication that dawn was even near, as black and empty as midnight, grey clouds obscuring the moon and stars.

“Is the Crown Prince well?” She asked as they crossed the ample silent courtyard and past the stables. The high towers of the Keep loomed above their heads solemnly in the darkness, the red brick looking a dark purple in the knight. The few arched windows cut in the thick walls were pitch black, where hours before they had shimmered in yellow and orange from fires.

“I do not see why he would not be.” He brushed her off, one eyebrow rising high on this tanned forehead, his voice still holding that warning tone. _He is evading my questions._

“He seemed to be in pain, at the feast…” She pushed, not knowing why but suddenly needing to know. She had been the one to send him to the Prince, even if he seemed eager to deny everything. Ser Arthur’s lips pressed in a thin line.

“His Grace seemed perfectly well to me.” Violet eyes turned to face her, burning, wary. _He is lying._

She closed her mouth, biting her tongue. There was no point in asking more question, not when she knew the Sword of the Morning would not answer any of them. _He will not talk about Rhaegar. He is keeping the Prince’s secrets, whatever they are._

They walked past the massive hall that housed the Throne Room, turning left and right around smaller buildings and towers. He led her to the very edge of the Keep’s grounds, slipping through a narrow crack in the tall perimeter wall that she had not even seen.

The salty wind slapped her face, tangling her hair behind her neck, and all she could see was the sky. The sky and the sea. Waves crashed loudly at the base of the cliff, many feet below, exploding in white mist over the black sharp stone.

Following the kingsguard was harder here, his figure agilely moving down the steep treacherous steps carved in the cliff’s wall. A few seagulls flew above their heads, their grey feathers shining silver in the night.

  
“Try not to fall.” The kignsguard’s voice carried in the wind, broken by loud thunder of another wave crashing violently over the rocks.

_Believe me, that’s all I’m trying. _ But it was harder than she thought. The steps were barely visible on the stone. Perhaps if the moon were somewhere in the sky it might aid her along. But it was pitch black. It did not help that the moist salty air made droplets gather on the stone, the steps slippery, covered with lime.

At last, she landed on a wide stone platform, somewhere down the middle of the cliff’s wall. Ser Arthur remained standing still just a couple of feet away from her, patiently waiting for her to approach. Her heart beat frantically once more, approaching the kingsguard with hesitant steps. Another wave hammered against the rocks, almost miles below, making the cliff’s wall explode in white foam.

“Draw your sword.” The command echoed along the tunes of another crashing wave.

She did as was told, sweating fingers reaching for the skinny thing she had stolen from the Winterfell armory, swallowing as she watched him do the same. Dawn stretched long and silver in the darkness, shining dimly with the light the moon failed to provide. Shivers ran down her spine, although she could not tell I they were from nerves or awe, realization suddenly kicking in. So he meant for them to…spar?

“Why not use practice swords?” She had to raise her voice a little in order for it to be heard over the noise of the sea, although she somehow manage to hide her dread from showing.

“There won’t be practice swords at the battlefield.” Came her answer. The salty ocean wind had somehow gotten colder, or was it pure dread that had her shivering so?

“What if I accidentally cut you?” She continued, forcing herself to take a step forward, her fingers curling tighter around her sword’s hilt, seating so much she felt as though she might drop it. _I will not be scared so easily. I cannot be scared so easily. _

But her words made him laugh, a single round of chuckles carrying out in the night’s humid air. _He knows I won’t even be able to touch him. _This was not just any knight. This was Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, a legend already, the best knight there ever was. And he had brought her all the way here to spar? Why? Why her? What was the purpose of it all?

“Show me your stance.” Some of the previous humor remained on the strong voice as he took a step towards her, his sword lazily handing form his hand, not even raised.

Lyanna threw him a long apprehensive look, but once again did as told, slowly, hesitantly, raising her sword. She paid particular attention to the observations the Dragon Prince had made only hours before, careful to loosen her grip a little and to part her feet. She did not want him to think she was as bad as she knew she was. _Curse you, Ned. For all the playful sparring we did as children, you never once corrected me or actually taught me anything. _

Still, he clicked his tongue in disapproval, much like Rhaegar had done.

“You are too stiff.” He rounded her, violet eyes studying her like a hawk, and she was sure he would see every tiny flaw in her posture. “Bend your knees a little, you look like a statue.”

And so he proceeded, until she lost track of just how many things he pointed out she was doing wrong. Nearly every part of her body had been pocked by his fingers, her shoulders pulled back, her hands readjusted, her feet pushed around. But she memorized everything.

Once he seemed somewhat satisfied with the way she stood, he stepped back, cocking his head to the side before raising his sword.

“Try to hit me.”

And she did, suddenly lounging forward, as quick as she could. But he was faster, much faster than she had even thought was humanly possible. In a single effortless move he had jumped away from her attack, as though she had been too obvious about it. She did not even see it happening, the hilt of his sword smashing on her back, and she found herself face first over the stone, hitting her chin hard.

She pushed herself to her feet, ignoring the sharp sting from the new scratch on her palm. And she lounged again, this time aiming left. But once again she stepped aside, evading her attack so easily it looked as though he was not putting up any effort at all. She tried again. He jumped back. Her sword cut through thin air, unbalancing her. She hit the ground once more.

She tried left. And right. She swung forward. And backward. Every time he evaded her attack with such ease that it made her rage inside. And all she received were blows she herself had not even seen coming. He hit her arms, her legs, her back, her ribs, all with the hilt of his sword, as to not cut her with the sharp edges. But it still hurt, even though she knew he was barely putting any strength at all in his blows.

By the first hour nearly every inch of her body was covered in new bruises. She found herself panting, brushing away sticky sweat from her forehead, which the humid air only made more prominent. She had fallen so many times she had already lost count, the tar and lime form the slippery stone below staining her palms, knees and elbows. And still she had not managed to hit him _once_.

At last, the Sword of the Morning stepped away, sheathing his renowned blade at his hip. She let her hands fall on her knees, panting to regain her breath.

More seagulls roamed above their heads, singing loudly in the wind, their wings reflecting the dull pink glow of dawn. The sun was rising, far in the horizon, over the sea, kissing the rolling waves in lilac.

“Here.” Ser Arthur offered a water skin in her direction, suddenly standing right next to her. She had not heard him approach. She took it gladly, nearly drowning the refreshing liquid inside, all too aware of the amused look on his violet eyes, lips curved up at the right end.

“You are worse than I thought you were.” He mocked, tucking the now empty water skin away. “I have taught squires who have far better technique.”

She would have shot an answer if she felt as though she had the energy to speak. But at the moment, all she could do was push her damp curls of black hair away from her face.

“You will meet me here on the morrow, at the same hour.” He continued, already making his way towards where the treacherous steps over the cliff’s wall started.

On the morrow? The words danced inside her head for a moment, leaving her confused.

“Are you….training me?” She could hardly believe the words that were coming out of her mouth, the Sword of the Morning stopping on his track, silent violet eyes meeting hers.

“Did you think I brought you here to spar for my own benefit?” She could hear the mocking glint in his voice, even though his face remained perfectly serious, looking almost annoyed at her question.

“Why?” Was all she could formulate, confusion still wracking her thoughts. He was the Sword of the Morning, a Kingsguard, the best knight there was in the Seven Kingdoms. And he was about to _train her_?

“I merely follow the orders I’m given.” His voice left no space for argument, starting his smooth ascent over the steps carved in the rock. “And you will be up before dawn to continue your training once we are on the road as well.”

“On the road?” She could not understand what he meant, but he ignored her, continued his march as though she had not even spoken.

She struggled to follow up the steps, careful not slip on the lime. _It would be a long way down. _

He was following orders. Suddenly a smile appeared on her face, not fully knowing why, but she could not control it. Following orders. And she did not need to be told to guess from whom such orders had come, for she was sure they had not come from the king. _It was Rhaegar. _


	11. Arthur

“Your Grace” His right hand knocked softly on the open wooden door that led to the bedchamber, letting his presence known to its sole occupant.

Sad indigo eyes slowly turned in his direction, lifting up from the piles of parchments and yellowing scrolls and maps and heavy tomes spread messily over the polished surface of a table. _Another sleepless night. _He did not need to ask, he could see it in the shadows that lingered underneath his friend’s eyes, on the tiredness that slumped his shoulders. Nonetheless he moved forward, slowly stepping inside the room as he had done countless times before.

He could see the candles at the table, at least seven of them, all down to their last inches, having burned all through the night. The yellow soft wax cried in rivers down their thin bodies, pooling over the wood, staining the old scrolls, but Rhaegar had not seemed to noticed. _He keeps searching. Reading. The dreams are slowly consuming him. _Not too far away out of the corner of eyes he could also see the bed, still perfectly made and unslept on.

“It is already dawn.” His low voice carried softly through the lavish room, suddenly seeming too loud in the reigning silence. He felt his prince did not even know the time, and he wished he could stop it from advancing. Of all nights to evade resting, Rhaegar had to choose precisely the one when he should have rested the most. But there was nothing to be done about it now.

“I take it everything is in order?” His friend’s eyes lingered on his, his pale face that perfectly blank expression he had mastered so many years ago, sitting a little straighter on his chair.

“We are ready to depart at your command.” He hated those words, but they needed to be said. Everything was in order, he had made sure of that. The ten men he had chosen were already lined and waiting for them outside in the main courtyard. His sworn brothers were also there, Ser Oswell and Ser Jaime, both in their glistening white armor and cloaks, sitting their mounts. Even the prince’s mount had already been saddled and readied, the Targaryen banners dancing on the morning breeze.

“Very well.” Was all his friend said, his voice that perfect flat tone that belonged to the Prince of Dragonstone. Indigo eyes departed from his, turning slowly down to gaze at the pile of documents and scrolls before him, silver hair falling over his shoulders like a curtain of moonlight as he moved.

“The king?” Rhaegar did not lift his eyes as he asked, following instead the columns of Valyrian texts in of the longest parchments. Still he did not miss the shadow that crossed his friend’s face as he spoke, and he felt his gust twist as he clenched his hands into fists.

He had heard the screams. The desperate cries had carried clearly even all the way to the Kingsguard’s tower. He was sure Rhaegar had hear them too. Perhaps that was another reason he had not found sleep the previous night. _The Queen won’t be seen for at least a couple of days, it seems. _

“His Grace has not yet risen.” He informed, clasping his hands behind his back in order not to keep digging his nails into his palms and further damaging his skin.

“Good.” Rhaegar nodded, once again not lifting his eyes.

The departure time had been decided on with precise care from the prince’s part, and the Sword of the Morning did not need to inquire to know exactly why. Rhaegar was avoiding having to say his farewells to the king, a demanded formality whenever he left the keep. He was avoiding having to watch the mad man’s sneer as he marches to what could probably mean his death._ The king will not like it, but Rhaegar would be far gone from this place to meet his rage. _Still he worried what the king could do in his anger.

A long second of silence settled comfortably in the room, broken only by the sporadic crackling of the weak fire still dancing on the fireplace.

“Do you have the dagger?” Sharp indigo eyes turned in his direction, one pale hand extended as if expecting to receive said item immediately.

Anger rose inside him once more at the sole mention of the blade he had now come to hate perhaps as much as the mad king himself. And still there was nothing left for him to do that nod his head. He had hoped, had even prayed, that his prince would have forgotten about it. But Rhaegar never forgot anything. And he was forced to oblige, reluctantly untying the blade form his hip and depositing it pommel first into the waiting hand. It was not his to keep.

He watched in silence, a combination of fear and anger rolling through his insides as the prince slowly turned it over ins his hands, watching it with blank indigo eyes. The thousands of ripples in the dark steel glimmered dimly on the candlelight, both beautiful and deadly at the same time. It had been a gift. He recalled the day so clearly it could have been the day before. It had been Lord Tywin Lannister to present the crown prince with the blade on his tenth nameday. He recalled watching in awe as the prince turned the blade in his hands then just as he was doing now. And he recalled how jealous he had felt, how he had imagined later that night that it was _him_ the one to receive such a grand gift, his little hands moving around the cold night air from his bed in the darkness, turning around a ghost blade only he could see. He wondered if Lord Tywin had known what this blade would be used for, would he still have gifted it to the prince? He did not want to know.

“How was the training session?” Rhaegar’s voice broke the silence this time, the blade hitting the table with a soft metallic sound, momentarily forgotten over the scrolls and parchment and books. He wondered if his friend only let go of the dagger in order to calm his mind.

“As was to be expected.” He confirmed, letting out a huff. His words were only met by an arched eyebrow, high on the princes’ pale forehead. _A little too pale to be healthy. _“_Ser_ Snow is clumsy, and green as the grasslands on the Reach. He lacks any sort of training, which leads me to conclude that he has not been trained at all before.”

“He is no knight.” Rheagar spoke the same words he had said times before, but this time Arthur could confirm that it was true. The boy was lying.

“Why do you have me train him, if we both know he is not being truthful?” He could not hold back his question, not this time. He had not asked before. He never did, always ready to follow his friend’s commands with a single doubt in his mind. Even if he did not know the reason for his orders, he could always be sure that Rhaegar did have a good reason for them. And he trusted Rhaegar blindly. Always had, and always would. But this, this he could not understand.

“Because,” His friend started, his eyes once again dancing through the long columns of Valyrian text, “regardless of the lies, the boy does not deserve to die for the mere crime of being foolish and naïve. He is still a boy.”

_But you do deserve to die for the mere crime of being the son of a mad man who sees treason everywhere he looks? _

“Is that why you singled him out to accompany you to the Reach? To keep him safe?” He could not deny that part of him had felt exasperated at the request. The purpose of their party was to ensure the protection of the prince, should they meet any danger on their travels. And the gods knew the boy could not even protect himself. It was a waste of a man, in his opinion. It was one man less to ensure Rhaegar’s wellbeing.

“No.” Rhaegar’s eyes looked sharper now, lifting so fast he had not seen them move. “I will keep him close so we can keep an eye on him. I do not trust him to be left in the keep, for I still cannot find out the reason he has come to King’s Landing. In the meantime, you, Os, and I will not let him out of our sight.”

“You believe he could be working against you.” He cocked his head to the side as he spoke, his own violet eyes carefully studying his friend. It wasn’t a question.

“He is from the North, a bastard from House Umber.” Rhaegar’s tone remained flat as he spoke, and the Sword of the Morning did not ask how the prince had acquired this information.

So the boy should be in Riverrrun, under the command of Lord Stark.

“Do you think he is a deserter? Scurried off at the prospect of the imminent war?” He attempted, but even as he said those words he realized how unlikely they were.

“And ran to join a different army instead?” Rhaegar finished what he had only just been thinking.

He would need to keep a closer eye on the boy. He had sense no evil from him, did not seem to pose a threat. But he should know better than to make assumptions.

“Lord Whent’s reply arrived last night.” His friend changed the subject, slender fingers holding up a small scroll with a broken seal. It was a dangerous game, the one Rhaegar was playing, but it was a necessary one.

“And?” He inquired, stepping closer to the table where he prince sat motionlessly. The candles continued to weep.

“He is with me.” Was all his friend replied, and Arthur found himself letting out a breath he had not known he had been holding. He ignored what was in the scroll, but if it were to fall on the wrong hands, he did not want to imagine the consequences.

The Dragon Prince seemed to be thinking the exact same thing, for slowly his slender fingers moved the scroll to one of the candles, letting the weak yellow flame grow around it, quickly devouring it. He watched as well, the fire always alluring, dancing in yellow and red over the scroll, shifting into shapes, coming closer and closer to his friend’s fingers….

“Rhaegar!”

He jumped in, not stopping to think as he reached for the burning scroll, ripping it from the prince’s fingers and dropping it over the stone floor. He felt the bite of the fire on his fingers, the sharp sting of tis tongues, his hand instinctively reaching out for the prince’s pale fingers, still held up as if holding the ghost of the scroll, inspecting the new burns in them.

Except there were none.

He froze in place, eyes still fixed on the flawless pale skin, where it should have been red and blistered. He had seen the fire licking Rhaegar’s fingers, had seen the flames dance over his skin. He had not imagined it. His own fingers were raw, the skin pink and angry, pain flaring as he flexed them.

Indigo eyes blink a couple of times, as if waking up from a sudden daze, meeting his.

“You should get that treated before we depart.” Rhaegar pulled his fingers from his grasp in a graceful swift move.

“It is nothing.” He dismissed it, shaking his aching fingers absently in the air, pretending they did not sting. “I’ve had worse.”

“Hm.” Was all Rhaegar said, and he was glad that his friend knew him well enough not to insist.

The Prince of Dragonstone rose to his feet, and Arthur did not miss the slight wince he attempted to hide. None other would have noticed, he was certain, but he knew Rhaegar far too well for it to slip his eyes.

“Rhaegar?” His voice dropped, giving his friend a long meaningful look. But the prince ignored him, pale fingers carefully closing the heavy tome of Valyrian texts over the table, a cloud of dust exploding in the air.

_He is not yet fit to travel. _It was a long journey to Highgarden, and he was starting to doubt whether Rhaegar could make it. He had to, there was no other way. Anger boiled inside him once more, he could feel it coursing through his veins like venomous snakes. But there was nothing he could do. There was nothing anyone could do. The king was truly mad, sending off his heir against the Maester’s advice. They would need to keep a close eye on him, he and Oswell. Closet than they usually did, for he had no doubt Rhaegar would do everything in his power to hide his pain.

The king wanted Rhaegar dead. That much was clear to him. _He wants to make Viserys his heir. _The sole thought of that made shivers travel down his spine, and he shifted on his feet, feeling the weight on his pristine white armor. The boy was still innocent, yet malleable. He was weaker than Rhaegar, it was evident even at his tender age. _The boy is no dragon. _It would not be hard to mold him to be just like his sire. It would be a cruel and despicable thing to turn something so innocent into such a monster.

And yet even in his madness the king still managed to prove brilliant at times, outwitting them all. The accident had been perfectly executed. Only thinking about it made him clench his hands into fists once more, ignoring the sharp sting on his burned fingers. There was no way to prove that it had all been planned, that the king had been behind it all, but he had no doubt. Even now, closet to a moon after, the fear remained as raw as he had felt it that day, when his had landed on Rhaegar’s unmoving figure. He had believed the prince was dead. How disappointed must the king be that his son somehow managed to survive.

“I will meet you at the courtyard in a quarter hour.” Rhaegar’s soft voice brought him back from his wondering thoughts, and he lifted his eyes to find a pair of silent and ever sad indigo eyes fixed on him. He wanted to say more, but understood his dismissal.

“You Grace.” Was all he said, inclining his head once before making his silent march towards the door, stopping only a few steps away from it.

“Eat something.” He threw his friend one last meaningful look, feeling oddly more like a nursemaid than a sworn brother of the kingsguard, having to remind his charge of something so basic. And yet he feared that if he did not insist on it, Rhaegar might not even break his fast before departing. He rarely had an appetite lately.

One fine eyebrow arched high on his friend’s forehead, and for a second he hoped for a smile. But there was only a ghost of it, if he looked very deeply, reflected only in corner of his sad indigo eyes. When was the last time he had seen Rhaegar smile? He could not recall. Still, he accepted what he got, turning back on his heels and exiting the large chamber.

He made his way down the courtyard without paying much attention, the steps and corridors so familiar he could have crossed them with his eyes closed. The air was still oddly cool, but he knew the comfortable bliss would last very little, and the scorching heat would pierce them mercilessly in a matter of short hours, once the sun rose high on the sky.

Their party was right where he had left it, a couple of the men sitting comfortably on the stone floor, no doubt having tired of waiting on their feet. The boy, Snow, was easy to find, standing skinny and awkward in one corner of the assembled men, as if wanting to make himself small. Arthur paid him little mind, his feet crossing the courtyard straight in Oswell’s direction, the latter having heard his approach, his eyes fixed on him.

“And Rhaegar?” His sworn brother asked, too low for anyone else to hear him.

“Coming.” Was all he offered, his hands busy reaching for the reins of his destrier. Out of the corner of his eyes he could see the lion cub already on his white mount, his chest tall, looking too proud to be part of their party. _He is still half a boy._

“Arthur.” His eyes flew back to meet Oswell’s demanding gaze, letting out a sigh.

“We will have to keep an eye on him.” He whispered, but he knew that he would not need any further explanations. Oswell cursed under his breath.

The sky was still soft pink once Rhaegar emerged from the keep only minutes later, donning his black armor and a red travelling cloak. His presence, even still some distance away seemed to stir something in the other men, who quickly pulled themselves to their feet, brushing away the dirt and dust from their mismatched and beaten armors. They would look pathetic, Arthur did not even want to imagine it, suddenly picturing how this poor excuse of soldiers would look marching up the steep slopes towards Highgarden, escorting the Prince of Dragonstone no less.

Oswell seemed to be thinking the same thing, for he was already barking orders to the other men, making scurry around and get up on their horses. He wondered if they even knew how to ride. They would have to keep up with the pace, whether they had the skill or not.

He made his way toward the front of the line, following Rhaegar, watching carefully as his friend climbed up his mount with perfect ease. The black beast remained impassive under him, only shaking its mane a couple of times, ears twitching.

And then they were off, starting their slow march out the gates of the Red Keep, the Targaryen banners swaying languidly on the wind. Two columns of goldcloaks flanked their sides, escorting then through the city and until they reached the gates. It was still very early in the morning, and yet King’s Landing seemed to never sleep, the narrow sloped streets still filled with people, mostly beggars and orphaned children, scurrying off in their torn and dirty rags. Still they were on them within seconds, gathering at the sides of the already narrow streets, yelling at the sight of their Prince, some reaching their hands in an attempt to touch him.

“It is Prince Rhaegar! My Prince! Prince Rhaegar!” He could hear the cries and cheers around them, people emerging from narrow wooden doors, other peeking out of tiny windows in order to get a better look. But the sight no longer surprised Arthur, and all he wanted was for the goldcloaks to help them make their exit faster.

_They never cheer for Aerys. It is Rhaegar they want. _

In front of him, Rhaegar rode through the crowd with graceful ease, his face now the perfect mask of the Prince of Dagonstone, sitting regal and tall. His friend knew the act, nodding this way and that at the cheering people, occasionally waving with a hand.

But not once did Rhaegar smile.


	12. Rhaegar

_It was hot. Too hot. The infernal heat burned his insides as he tried to take a breath, but no air filtered through his nostrils, only smoke and fire. The bright orange tongues ate at his skin from left and right, blazing harsher than the Sun, crackling and twisting so loudly it made his ears rings. He could not see past them. There was nothing pas them. Only fire. _

_He looked down, trying to find his hands, his body, and yet saw nothing but fire, so bright, so hot that it made his eyes water. Desperately, reached out with invisible hands, trying to feel for his arms, to find out if they were still there. But what he touched was not skin, but something hard and hot, too hot. Scales. And his hands had no fingers, but claws, _

_He knew what was coming, knew it before it happened. And still it happened. He tried to scream, but he had no voice, no sound left his mouth, only the deafening cracks of the fire around him. And the pain was as brutal as it always was. It rippled through him, limb by limb, and he could hear the cracks of all of his bones braking, one by one, stretching, deforming, contorting. And he was falling, falling, and falling….but there was nothing to fall into other than the fire….a fire that was solely turning green, bright green…and in the flames he could see the city, or what was left of it. The towers of the Red Keep were dancing, falling into the green inferno, except three, which were stretching, high towards a sky he could not see, a sky that only fire and smoke, and they turned into heads, and long necks, with ruby red eyes. _

_He hit the ground hard, and yet it did not hurt. His eyes stung too much form the smoke for him to open them, and the first thing he felt was the cold, almost as bitter and unforgiving as the heat form the fire had been. There was something soft under his feet, scrunching as he moved, almost like powder. Snow. He could feel it hitting his face and body, slapping against him under the brutal wind. Everything was grey and blue when we managed to open his eyes, only slits, and all he could see was snow, and ice, and dead….and the Wall, stretching like a silver line in the horizon, tall and frozen, and hard. _

He woke up with a start, jumping up on the poor excuse of a cot, and regretting it as the pain flared fiercely down his body as if protesting the movement. He was panting, trying to fill his desperate lungs with air. With a shaking hand he pushed the hair from his face, wiping the cold sweat from his brow.

_It was only a dream._

But the pain felt real. He closed his eyes, willing himself to take even, steady breaths. He could still feel it, burning though his limbs, as deep as the bones themselves. He flexed his fingers, wincing at the sharp ache in his joints. And for a moment he could not move, waiting for the worst of it to pass. It always did. He was used to it by now, always the same after the dreams, leaving his whole body stiff and his blood turning into fire inside his veins, burning him from the inside. It was not too bad though…He had had worse nights.

It proved to be one of the easiest nights, thank the seven, and it only lasted a couple of minutes until the sharp pain ebbed into a dull ache deep in bones that he could ignore. His head pounded, and when he dared open his eyes he found that his vision spun, forcing him to swallow compulsively in an effort to fight the bile rising on his throat.

Cruse these dreams. They were getting worse. He could not understand them, no matter how much he tried. They were recurrent, always the same things but with different shapes and timings. At first they had only left him with a ghost of an ache, but now it was sharp pain that assaulted his whole body every time he came back to the waking world. And they were exhausting, each night leaving him a little wearier than the night before.

Resigned to another sleepless night, Rhaegar got to his feet, wincing as another sharp pain made itself known, one that had nothing to do with the dream-induced aches. It had been two days since they set off, and his half-healed injuries were already heavily protesting the abuse.

He lifted the hem of his tunic to inspect his torso, pale fingers ghosting over his right side. It was dark inside the small tent, no moonlight shone through the blood red canvas, and yet his eyes could see clearly enough. The bruises were still there, looking almost green rather than the black they had been, just over his last couple of ribs. But still it hurt, particularly as said mending ribs jostled at the fast pace of the gallop.

He could not see his back, but he only needed to feel for the base of his spine with tempting fingers to pull away at the sharp pain he felt at the contact. It radiated up his spine and down his legs like a sharp jolt before settling. It was the worst of the injuries. At least today the pain let him stand up.

His right shoulder ached as well. He had used it to break the fall, and sliding down the neckline of his tunic he could still see there the angry pink line where the Maestar had had to sew his skin closed, just here the collarbone met his shoulder. The muscles felt stiff there, and he had not yet regained full used of his arm, not able to yet rotate his shoulder without being stopped by sharp hot needles. It was his sword arm. A dangerous limb to have compromised. He would ask Arthur to spar with him one of these mornings, to ty and get some of his strength back. His friend had denied all his previous requests, not wanting to worsen the injury by abusing the limb, but he as no longer safe inside the Red Keep. He needed to have full use of his arm.

Safe. The sole thought of that word made him almost want to laugh. Except that he had forgotten how to do so. Had he ever been safe at the Red Keep? The answer that first came to his head was no, and yet he did not want to admit it. Almost absently his eyes travelled to his arms, rolling up the wide sleeves of his tunics to inspect the pale skin there. It was marred, and filled with scratches running down the length of both arms. They did not hurt. Not anymore. Or perhaps they did and he had simply gotten so used to them eh could no longer feel them. He could still see the nails if he looked closer, yellow and long and gracing him forcefully in rage. He could have pushed them away, just one sure movement of his stronger hands and those yellow bony fingers would snap like twigs. But his father’s rage would burn all the fiercer, and he could have ended with his head on a spike, or burning in a cloud of green flames in the middle of the Throne Room, in front of all the court to see.

It was better this way, allowing his father to let out some of his rage on him in order to remain alive. The kind would look for any excuse to have him killed. And still it angered him, enraged him, that nobody did anything. Nobody ever had, not even when he was a child, and the king still decided to take out his anger on him. There were always guards there, Kingsguards, in their white shining armor, Ser Barrristan, Ser Gerold…. and yet not once did they help him. Only later he had come to realize that they _couldn’t_ help him. Not if they too wished to live.

And he had become the same. He did not do anything either. He heard his mother’s cries, her tormented screams, and still he kept to his chambers. He had tried once, when he was younger, when he had felt himself invincible and courageous, his brain drowned in all the stories of valiant knights and conqueror’s he had been devouring. But the consequences had been dire. The torture on his mother had been worse. And he had learned that the heroes only existed in even as his mid pictured a thousand ways in which his own fingers swung the sword that ended the mad-man’s life. But could he do it? If he had the chance, would he be able to murder his own blood? No. He would not be able to.

He shook the thoughts from his head, stepping out into the night. He would not find sleep for the rest of the night, even if he tried. The sky outside was black over his head, almost as if one of the gods had spilled ink behind the sparse grey clouds. They were a short distance from the main road, close enough not to waste time returning to it yet far enough not be spotted by other travelers. It was a good place, Oswell had made a good decision. A bunch of tall trees surrounded them sparsely, enough to provide coverage.

The men were sprawled over the grass and dirt disorderly, a couple of them snoring loudly. He partially envied them and their restful sleep. _They are no soldiers_, he was reminded once again. It became more and more evident as the days went by. He could see Arthur and Oswell, both fast asleep by the sides of his tent, even though he knew both of them slept so lightly that a false step from his part would have them up with their sword’s drawn in a matter of seconds. Ser Jaime was there too, not too far from his sworn brothers, yet far enough for it to be evident that he did not feel entirely welcome in their crew. He felt a slight pang of guilt at the notion. He could not trust the young lion in the same way he trusted Arthur and Oswell. _Never trust a Lannister._ But he would need to ask the other two to at least pretend for the sake of the young one, to not make him feel so left out.

A lone figure sat at the farthest corner of the make-shift camp, by the remains of what had been their fire for the night. Even in the dark and distance his silhouette was unmistakable: smaller than the others, thin, and pale, with midnight short hair and stormy grey eyes. Even now he had to shake away the strange thought that it was a _girl_ what he was looking at. _Don’t be ridiculous._

He didn’t know why he was doing it, but he found his legs patiently walking in the boy’s direction. There was nobody else awake, and oddly enough he found that he did not wish to be alone. There were only ghosts luring in the darkness for him.

“Your Grace.” The boy breathed out quickly when leaf crunching under his boots gave away his presence, awkwardly scurrying up to his feet.

He ignored him, even though part of him remained strangely curious about the boy, a king of curiosity he could not really understand where it came from. Instead he lowered himself on a cold boulder, a couple of feet to the boy’s left. He could feel the dry moss sticking to his breeches. The boy said nothing in return, merely lowering himself back to sit on the ground, skinny arms hugging equally skinny knees.

“Keeping watch?” Rhaegar broke the silence, his voice barely more than a whisper and yet echoing like thunder in the stillness of the night. What was he even doing?

Large grey eyes turned to meet his, reminding him of the heavy clouds just before the rain. He didn’t know what to make of those eyes, just as he didn’t know what to make of the boy himself. They were scared yet defiant, warm yet hostile and cold. He didn’t know what to read in them.

“It is my shift, Your Grace.” The boy replied, his voice soft, not sounding as sure of himself as he had had only days before, when he had confronted him boldly inside his own Solar. For the first time he noticed a wide purple blotch on the boy’s left cheek, blossoming under his eye.

“Not fast enough?” He pointed out, the boy’s delicate finger’s reaching to touch the spot on his cheek where his indigo eyes were fixed. The boy would have made a pretty girl, if he thought about it. Everything about him was so delicate. It struck him to ask Arthur to be a little less hard on the boy, but he shook the thought right away. The boy needed to learn to defend himself properly.

“Our bruises remind us that we’re are still learning, and growing.” The pretend-knight said in a proud and inspiring voice, reciting words that seemed to belong in a tale or song. That hit too close to home. None of his bruises reminded him that he was learning. They only reminded him that life was unfair.

“Or that we were stupid enough to get hit in the first place.” He countered, watching as the boy’s eyes hardened somewhat. Silence settled once more, broken only by a distant hooting of an owl.

“Why are you helping me, Your Grace?” The frail question made his attention return to boy, finding his puzzled grey eyes studying him. There was kindness in those eyes, gratefulness, and he didn’t’ know why but he did not feel like he deserved it, only making his mood sourer. “I know you asked Ser Arthur to teach me, he follow’s no one else’s orders but yours.”

“What makes you believe it is_ you_ I am helping, and not myself?” He didn’t know why he did it. It was not true, his words were a lie, and yet he said them, almost preferring the boy believed that instead. “You cannot fight in my name if you do not know how to wield a sword.” 

His words had the intended effect. There was a flash of anger and hurt on the boy’s eyes, and he turned away, gazing at the still red wood where the fire had once danced. And yet that did not make Rhaegar feel better either, if only it made him feel worse. He considered apologizing for a second, but decided against it. It would not reflect good on him, even if he knew it was perhaps the right thing to do.

“Are you always so _pleasant_?” Ice pierced his eyes, the boy’s voice filled with venom. He was courageous, that was true. Not many would dare address him in that manner, so boldly, so menacing. Still, his words did not hurt Rhaegar. He felt as if nothing could really hurt him anymore. There was almost no part of him that had not already been hurt before. Still he remained impassive, and he could tell that it was perhaps that which was further feeding the boy’s anger. The boy wanted a reaction, expected one.

“That depends.” Was all he said, with a slight shrug. The boy’s eyes had not released his figure, looking momentarily puzzled yet wary. The boy trusted him as little as he trusted the boy.

“On what?”

“On the company.”

Another flash of anger flickered through the boy’s stormy eyes, but the pretend-knight did not bit back, even though Rhaegar could tell he was making an effort to hold his tongue. Part of him wished he didn’t, part of him wished the boy would counter his words with something as bitter as he had.

“Why do you keep talking to me, Your Grace?” The question left the boy’s mouth in a silent whisper, mellow grey eyes trying not to bite at him or outwit him, but to understand him.

He looked away first, knowing that he shouldn’t have, but he could not bear that kind puzzled and understanding look the younger boy was throwing him.

“I don’t know.” He admitted, even though he could barely believe he did. The bitterness and sour tones were gone from his voice, which was only flat. He had lost the energy to fight.

“Are you going to tell me what you are really doing in the South, in my army?” He turned to face the boy’s silent face, wishing that his voice did not sound as flat and lifeless as it did. It wasn’t a demand, it was evident in his tone, and he cursed himself for sounding so defeated.

“Would you believe me if I did?” There was no fight in the boy’s voice either, as soft as the gentle night breeze.

“No.” He admitted truthfully, and the boy seemed to accept that, to almost expect it.

“If you must know,” The boy started anyway, after a long moment of silence, when he had begun to think the conversation was over. The boy’s fingers traced patters over the darkened grass, moving some scattered leaves around absently. “It is a marriage I’m running away from.”

That peeked his interest, even if only slightly, his own indigo eyes carefully studying the boy, whose knees were still drawn to his chest in an almost childish pose. He looked too young to be married, and yet it did not surprise him either.

“Why would a bastard need to run away from a marriage? Nobody arranges marriages for bastards.” He cocked his head to the side, but the boy’s eyes gave no indication that he had spotted a flaw in his tale. Perhaps it was not a lie. And oddly enough he felt he did not even have the energy to be suspicious anymore. Whatever the boy told him, he would accept. He was exhausted, and not only in body.

“Who said it was my own marriage?” The boy countered, and Rhaegar felt silent, choosing to listen instead. “The arranged marriage was that of a girl……A girl I love very dearly, and did not want to see her put on a cage to serve and obey another man.”

There was true and deep bitterness in the boy’s words, and he could see the pain and fear of what he said reflected in his stormy grey eyes. It was not a lie. That pain could not be faked, not even by the most skilled actors.

“I’m sorry.” He found himself saying, his voice barely audible, eyes not departing from the boy’s silent ones.

“Perhaps this girl you fear for…” Rhaegar started, voice carrying softly through the night. Another owl hooted again. He didn’t why he was offering word of comfort to this pretend-knight he did not yet trust. And yet the words felt more like comfort to himself. “Perhaps she will eventually find love in her marriage.”

“Perhaps.” The boy agreed, although half-heartedly, letting him know that the boy didn’t really believe that was a likely outcome.

“Do you hope to find love in your own marriage, Your Grace?”

The question caught him by surprise, and for a long second he did not know how to answer, feeling the weight of the boy’s curious gaze on him. _There is still some childish innocence in those eyes. _

“No.” He found himself answering before he could stop and think, his voice once again flat and lifeless, and he could not understand why was granting the boy an answer in the first place. “My marriage will always be political.”

“Forgive me, Your Grace.” The boy shook his head, as though for the first time realizing that it had been a slightly personal question what he had asked. He wished he could have provided a different answer, but it was the only answer there was. Love had never and would never be in the equation for him. His feelings had no say in the matter. “I should have known that.”

“If I may ask, Your Grace-

“No, you may not.” He cut the boy off mid-sentence, but his words sounded too weak to hold any real command in them. “But I guess you will ask regardless.”

“What were you going to do with that dagger? That night?”

The words floated in the air like smoke, as frail as ghosts. He had not been expecting that question, and now that he heard it, did not know how to answer it. He should feel anger, he always did, every time Arthur or Oswell brought it up. And yet he didn’t. He felt nothing. As if he himself was nothing but a specter. 

“I don’t know.” He found himself answering, even though he himself had not known the answer to that question until he spoke it. The answer should had been _nothing_. But the truth was, he really did not know. He did not know what he would have done, if he would have truly dared, and finding out whether or not he would have done it scared him the most.

He could feel those grey eyes fixed on him, but this time he did not look away. And yet the boy’s eyes were not defiant, there was no ice, no fire, no stubborn will in them, only the strangest sentiment he had ever been gazed with: understanding.

In those simple three words he had said more than he should have, had revealed more than was wise. And why was he doing it? Why suddenly let out a thought he had not even graced Arthur with in front of this boy he did not even trust…..except that somehow, contrary to all common sense and logic, to what every bone in his body told him, he _did_.


End file.
